


Rewrite The Stars

by Albilibertea, crypt_mirror



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DC Extended Universe-AU, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Clark, Bottom Clark Kent, M/M, Medieval/science fi au, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Past Child Abuse, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Superbat Big Bang 2019, dubcon, fairy tale AU, sort of Game of Thrones inspired for simplicity; everyone is a lord and a lady unless specified, this author always wanted to use Lord Paramount as a title, weird world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-30 12:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albilibertea/pseuds/Albilibertea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypt_mirror/pseuds/crypt_mirror
Summary: Clark Kent the Superman, Bruce Wayne the Dark Knight, their soul marks fated them to be together. But fate and destiny seem to have other plans. Even as they play their part, they pay the price. Could they ever rewrite the stars?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My second SuperBat Big Bang! Before anything else I thank my partner in crime [Albi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albilibertea/pseuds/Albilibertea) for the AMAZING ART!!! Ever patient ever supportive as I went through all sorts of challenges RL wise while trying to get this done. Shout out to the mods at SBB for having Amnesty Week. Yay!! Once again a BIG THANK YOU to [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter) for the beta. All the weirdness and mistakes are mine alone. And to the SBB discord channel folks who are brilliant and up during weird hours for all the help and by just being there doing all the things.
> 
> Welcome to my strange pseudo medieval sci fi/fantasy set in a Game of Thrones like world, but this is not a GOT AU. because i definitely don't have the skill for that so i just borrowed most of the world building ideas because they are beyond epic and this is fan fiction so yay!  
For inspiration I used the Sleeping Beauty definitely not the Disney-fied one. The older versions were really dark. Also I reread some Neil Gaiman to hopefully get the rhythm of the words right. Also his story: The Sleeper and the Spindle is one of my favorites please check that out. This was not easy peeps, I am so not doing this again, lol.
> 
> I picked through whatever stuff I wanted to include here especially for the DCEU so if it’s not here, it’s deliberate.  
ART FOR FIC IS [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093596)

Prologue

  
  


Thousands of years ago Steppenwolf and his legions of parademons attempted to take over Earth with the combined power of three Mother Boxes. Gathered together, the Boxes form the Unity, a powerful force that can rebuild Earth into the hellscape of Steppenwolf’s world. A unified army of Atlanteans, Amazons, and the tribes of men repelled Steppenwolf and his army. 

  
  


_ Themyscira Thirty Thousand Years Ago _

  
  


The Dark Knight rallied his remaining troops in the hope of slowing down the merciless scourge of parademons; it was also part of a bigger yet desperate plan to put an end to Steppenwolf and end his conquest. Many battles had been fought here, so many it seemed that the dark ground had become a sodden bog that oozed blood, sweat and piss, along with all the unnatural liquid that bled out of the parademons once they were killed. Burnt battle wagons mixed with the smell of excrement and the foul muck of the wet earth and scorched corpses — mostly human, though some were not. The shrieking calls of circling carrion birds pierced the skies above them, before they dove to the ground to feast on what remained of the burnt human and non-human flesh; the birds drew no distinction in this part of the world with so few that lived.

In the midst of all this, Grayson led his master’s huge black warhorse quickly and quietly through the small patch of trees and bushes. The Dark Knight, brilliant and fierce in battle —and  now barely alive. When the Dark Knight had been struck down, the Amazons had protected Grayson, so he could bring the knight to safety. The young squire could not bear the thought of his master captured and his body desecrated by the enemy, not when he had fought so hard and given up so much more than anybody could have asked of him. Eyes closed, the only sounds coming from the knight were the wheezy breaths that escaped from his bleeding lungs.

Soon a succeeding wave of the parademon horde would have direct sight of them. Grayson looked up, hoping that an Atlantean squad of dragon riders might be making a pass overhead; most of them were arrogant bastards, who wanted as little to do with other races as possible, but they would help him, for the Dark Knight was well regarded even by them. Sadly, Grayson could spy no such succor. But that was no surprise, for several battles were being fought on different fronts. The tribes of men, Atlanteans, and Amazons were spread thin. 

Grayson had never felt so alone. He was exhausted and thirsty, for he had barely taken food and water for himself from their dwindling supply, since the Dark Knight needed it more. He could stop to rest for a bit, but he was afraid that if he did that he might lose the will to continue. But sheer fatigue won out, the heat of the afternoon sun bearing down mercilessly on him. He sighed gravely, then carefully took his master down from the horse and leaned him against a large boulder behind a copse of wild bushes. 

"My Lord?" He lifted the knight's helm cautiously and wiped the knight’s forehead with a cloth moistened with water from his water-skin.

A soft moan answered him. His poor master, the best among men; no one else could undertake such a task.. Grayson moistened the cloth again and pressed it against the dying man’s lips. 

The squire could see the Dark Knight’s eyes open, but they were listless, unfocused. "Our people … we can’t …” he said, in between labored breaths, before he quieted once again.

“It is all right, sir. They say he took the box far away, just as you told him to.” At his words, the Dark Knight gave a slight nod to him and pressed his arm tight.

“Good.”

“You could call for him, Sir. It’s not too late —”

“---- No! I command you! No!" the Dark Knight said, his voice loud and firm as he seized the squire’s shirt with surprising strength. He grunted in pain. His breaths came heavily, shallowly. “Let him finish his job …he needs to keep the box away! We don’t have much time.  _ He _ is coming… do you understand---?” He was seized with another fit of coughing that seemed to be worse than before.

“Peace! M’lord, save your strength! I will do as you wish.” Grayson immediately regretted that he had suggested such a thing. He could not bear to see his master agitated in this condition. Quickly, he moistened the cloth once again and pressed it against his master’s lips. This seemed to soothe him; the Knight released his hold on Grayson's shirt and rested once again. The squire wished he could do more, but the knight had given him his orders. 

From his vantage point on the slight hill, the young man could barely see the ground itself, for it was littered with bodies: humans, parademons, horses. Parademons were made from dead flesh and given life; some even had mechanical parts to them, especially those that had come with the Destroyer’s ship. Mangled and broken limbs, flesh and mechanical, tangled with hacked-off shields and splintered spears, fallen swords, and other weapons he did not recognize.

And then the brief moment of respite was gone. Grayson heard a rush, the moans and shrieking of the dead around him waking. Steppenwolf and his undead army marched in numbers now replenished by flesh and blood beings that had fallen dead, resurrected as nightmare creatures by the Destroyer’s dark alchemy. It would be the easiest thing in the world for him to flee now, by himself; alone, he could easily slip through their ranks. But he could never leave the knight. He had made that promise to the knight and the one he loved. The squire took a deep breath as he uttered a silent prayer for a miracle before the horde came upon them. He blew his nose on his garment; his body shook terribly because of unease, exhaustion, and shock. And then he drew his sword, prepared to use it, for whatever good it would do against the vicious creatures.

He waited, desperate, praying with once-forgotten words for some sort of salvation. The sun’s light that had broken through the clouds disappeared abruptly. A strong sea breeze blew over them, giving him a reprieve from the stench of death. The air began to thrum with wild energy; then came the noise of a great battle drawing near, just below the hill. Though he ached to see what was happening, he dared not look, for fear of being discovered. There was a sudden surge of blistering heat, and with it the sound of the advancing dead army was silenced.

Grayson felt compelled to look out, and was greeted with the sight of a god looking down on him, quiet as a stone statue; he hadn't even noticed that he was already there. His hopelessness and fear mounted a thousandfold, and shock threatened to overwhelm him. This being, his great blood-red cape spattered with black gore, blocked out the sky, poised in midair above Grayson. His eyes smoldered red. Once again, the air around him seemed like it was about to ignite. The squire feared that the god above him had become a demon. The strange sigil on his wide chest, that of a bat entwined within the curved glyph of his own house, appeared ominous even as it symbolized hope; but most of all, it was a symbol of the bond he had with the fallen Knight. The dark armor, alien metal, and the intricate glyphs embedded within glinted in the sun, wraithlike.

He landed in the mud next to them, barely disturbing the earth despite his size. He towered over the squire, more than six feet, with wide broad shoulders. The red in his eyes was gone, giving way to a sharp blue, and the air cooled once again. Grayson realized he had been doing nothing but gazing up uselessly. He was certain this being would strike him down, yet he was so mesmerized and terrified at the sight that he remained kneeling, transfixed.

The god knelt next to him in the wet ground, then laid a comforting hand on the young squire’s shoulder to soothe him. The young man exhaled in relief. 

Gently, the god lifted the body of the Dark Knight and held him close to his chest. He shuddered, fighting back whatever emotion it was that threatened to overwhelm him at that point. 

“Beloved.” The sorrow that filled his voice broke the squire’s heart even more.

“Is it done?” The Dark Knight opened his eyes and focused on him.

The god let out a deep sigh. “Yes, it is hidden and it is safe.”

This close, the squire could see that the armor near his shoulder had melted; the skin under it gaped raw and red. There were parts of his armor that were dented, even cleaved, by the blows of a powerful weapon. Grayson knew who must have dealt him those blows. He also knew only he could have lived through them. But the squire was more unsettled to see that a god could be wounded at all.

The Knight must’ve thought the same thing. “You’re wounded,” he said, scolding the god before them as he placed a hand on his chest.

“You’re dying. And still impossible.” He smiled, although the smile did not quite reach the sky-blue eyes; his hand caught the knight’s.

“Impulsive.”

“If I wasn’t impulsive, I wouldn’t be with the likes of you. Obsessive…insane,“ he said as he held the Knight tighter, preparing to take flight.

The Knight clutched his cape. “Stop!”

“I cannot lose you!”

“Damn it, Kal, if I ever meant anything… to you… listen, we are not going anywhere. It’s too late for me.” Kal-El was about to protest, but he stilled when the knight shook his head and grasped his cape tighter. The knight drew in another shaky breath, gathering strength, his words barely a whisper. “I know what you’re thinking; do not do it. You kept the Unity from coming together and saved us. Because of you, we have a chance to win this war. You must live, for me, for us… for all of us… they will need you after this…”

“What good is power if you cannot protect the ones you love?” The words burned with heat like his eyes had. 

“You can avenge them, and you did.”

“Steppenwolf is no more, but you—”

“This has always been our mission. For all who die, many more will live… Do not blame yourself. Promise me… do not do it, Kal…”

Kal sighed, more resigned this time. He took the Dark Knight’s face in his hand and kissed his beloved’s bloodied lips tenderly. When Kal lifted his head, the squire could see that around the bright blue, the fiery red of his eyes was all but gone. Slowly Kal spoke, his voice breaking. “The light of my life is you. The vessel of my desire is you. I am yours ---” 

“--- I am  _ yours _ and you are mine… forever,” the Dark Knight joined in, his voice soft yet steady. “Our vows… Kal—.” And with that, the Dark Knight clutched his beloved’s hand one last time with all that remained of his fierce strength, before he breathed his last. 

The sun had set behind them. The wind whipped harder. The orange and purple hues of sunset began to turn crimson. A void of pure blackness took shape in the sky towards the east, growing larger. A deafening noise came from the void; it was like grinding rocks and metal, in the midst of sharp cracks of violent lightning. Then the buzzing started. This, Grayson knew, was the sound of parademon wings: several thousandfold, all coming from the void. And the squire knew also, with all the terror in his heart, what it meant.  _ He _ was coming. Steppenwolf, the being that had killed the Dark Knight, was only his herald, his Destroyer. This was Steppenwolf's master, the Dark God himself. And the Dark God expected the three mother boxes. The Dark God expected the Unity of the mother boxes to have shaped this world into the hellscape of his homeworld. The warriors of Themyscira, who possessed knowledge beyond what mortals have, had a name for him.

Darkseid.

Kal still cradled his knight in his arms, eyes cast down at his beloved, fingers caressing his face, oblivious to the approaching ruin.

‘M’lord, what will you do?” the squire asked him softly, more out of fear for what was coming. He instantly regretted speaking, for his voice seemed to snap Kal out of the reverie he had fallen into as he held his knight close. 

“There is a battalion of men and Amazon warriors coming up the crest; the Atlanteans are about to clear the mountain ranges. They will be here quickly enough. They have been looking for you. I wish… I wish I had been here sooner,” he said, in a far-off voice.

“Sir, you have done right by him. And by all of us. No one else could have done what you did.”

“It will always come down to what I can do. These gifts that I have because of your sun, because of who I am. Do you know he was the first one I laid eyes on, when I came to your world? I bet he never told you he tried to kill me then. It was all very confusing.” 

“The master held such things close to his heart, sir.”

“When Darkseid came to my homeworld, I was on a mission on one of our distant moons. The elders of our planet felt it was better to destroy Krypton than be conquered, enslaved. A part of me never truly believed that it would happen. My father was on the Council and secretly warned me to stay away from the planet’s orbit. I wanted to come home and die with them, but it was too late.”

Then Kal looked the squire in the eye for the first time. “Thank you for taking care of him. Grayson, you are a good man and a good soldier. He would be so proud.”

The squire’s heart swelled despite the circumstances, but still he worried. “Sir, what will you do?” he urged boldly.

Once more Kal kissed his dark knight; his lips lingered for a moment more before he very gently, for the last time, closed the knight's great helm. Kal pulled the cape off his back with one hand as he held the knight in the other, and laid it on the sodden, disgusting earth. With utmost care, he laid down his knight on the cape and closed it around him.

And then he stood up and slowly rose into the air. His voice deep and full of pain, he said, “It always comes down to what I can do, doesn’t it? And somehow even that is never enough.”

“But you promised him,” Grayson said.

“I have lost my world,” he said, as he looked down at the red-shrouded figure. “Maybe there is still a chance you won’t lose yours. Please take care of him.”

“No!” Grayson knew he had been heard, but Kal-El had shot into the sky, swifter than any manmade or alien thing Grayson had ever seen, and with so much power it rent the air around him and left him gasping. The squire saw him arrow towards the clouds till he disappeared.

The sky rumbled above him; then a voice, dark and terrible, thundered, coming from everywhere, “I am Darkseid. Lord of Apokolips. This world is mine.”

The source of the voice was a giant, bigger than those that ever lived in this world. He was heavily armored in black and deep purple, with gray skin that seemed hewn from rock. The monster had eyes and the eyes were blood red. A dark growl emanated from him when he saw, from the west, Kal in full flight charging towards him. His eyes flashed red, and the air boiled, something like flames but more violent and focused firing towards Kal. It hit him straight in the chest and sent him barreling through the air like a meteor until he struck a mountain and crumbled it into large boulders. Fear mounted within Grayson; surely he could not be dead!

Darkseid spoke once again, hands clasped behind his back, a leader expecting nothing but absolute conquest. His parademons swarmed behind him. “Where is the Unity? Where is Steppenwolf?”

“There will be no Unity. Steppenwolf is dead!” Kal said, moments later, as he stumbled out from beneath the mountain of boulders.

“Kryptonian, you should have been erased from existence, for no one survives my Omega beams. You will be a worthy slave, unlike that weakling Steppenwolf. He took what was yours and you killed him. But it does not matter; even without my Destroyer, even without the Unity, this world is still mine, and those that I do not destroy will be my slaves.”

“Not today,” Kal said.

In his hand, Kal carried a mother box. He pressed and twisted, grunting with the effort it took to overcome its great power. From within, shafts of intense light pierced through the box, brilliant as the sun.

“You will never wield the mother box! It is mine!” Darkseid boomed, then unleashed the Omega beams at Kal.

Kal, fueled with rage and wrath, met the beams with the fire from his eyes. The two gods fought a violent battle too swift for human eyes to follow. One could only see the wake of destruction they left as they struggled. The parademon swarm began to attack, but everyone had rallied and fought with renewed hope and vigor, for the story of the sacrifices made by the Dark Knight and the Last Son of Krypton had spread far and wide. The majestic war dragons of the Atlanteans crisscrossed the sky, demolishing Darkseid’s sky troops and ships as they kept most of the parademons from attacking the warriors on the ground. Those that escaped them were dealt with by the Amazon-led battalions. Fearless, battle-wise tacticians were armed with god-forged weapons that could cut through anything, even alien steel. 

Kal-El shot into the sky once again, hurling himself towards the void. All of a sudden, a sharp loud crack of white fire splintered the heavens; the magnitude of its power shook the planet to its very core, and felled all the combatants on the ground. Those who were present said later that they heard a great roar, and the wailing of the parademons. The air rippled, and the sky bled unnatural lights, until the sun-bright light became too painful to behold; it expanded until it seemed like it consumed the entire heavens. Then, when it looked as though the world itself would be overwhelmed, the relentless blaze collapsed in on itself, blinking out of existence. Darkseid, the warships, the parademons, and, most of all, Kal, were nowhere to be seen.

Before they even buried their dead, the three races of Earth held a council. It was agreed upon that the mother boxes were too dangerous to be kept together. One went to the nation of Atlantis, another to Themyscira. And the third one, the Dark Knight had asked his beloved to hide away as soon as he dismantled the Unity, for he understood how easily the tribes of men can be tempted. This was the mother box that Kal-El had used against Darkseid. Days after the event, the wisest of men, Atlanteans, and Amazons, using both science and magic, tried to locate Kal and the last mother box; but all their efforts yielded nothing definitive. It was as if Kal-El and the mother box had never existed. It was suggested that they should harness the power of the remaining boxes to find the Last Son of Krypton, but in time all decided against it, for such power was too unpredictable, and one could never be too sure what they might bring back from the void.

Soon it came to pass that many believed it was somehow for the best that two of the most powerful things in the known universe had been lost, in the hope that both were also far from those who would seek to corrupt such power. In time, it became a different world; Atlantis fell into the sea, and Themyscira isolated itself from the world of men and forged a barrier between itself and the outside world. Men changed, too. And what had happened on that day, on that island by the sea, ceased to become history and passed into legend and myth.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Once upon a time there was a forest somewhere where the trees were very old. Their heavy boughs formed a thick canopy. It was nighttime, and the only light by the glade was that of the fireflies that played in the thick hazel bushes. Up above the forest was the solitary moon; then the solitary moon was joined by a light, a light of equal size. That light became larger as it came closer, closer, until it touched the canopy of old trees in the dark forest, and the great branches broke and burned. Until finally the light settled in the midst of the quiet glade.

Once upon a time in a land where there were castles and kings and queens, a much-awaited babe was born to a lord and his lady. Not just any lord and lady, mind you, but soul mates, fated by destiny to be together, the soul mark on each one twin to the other. For in this world, all carried a mark that would identify them to their fated one. This child was a son, born to one of the most important families in the kingdom, 5th in line to the throne on his mother’s side. All believed the boy would want for nothing, for he would have wealth, title, power, and, most of all, love.

SBSBSBSBSB

It was a beautiful day, the start of their summer holiday. Bruce loved summers, mostly because Father stayed home more, away from his duties as the Lord Paramount of Gotham. Father always told him he had a very important job, working for his uncle the king, serving as Warden of the East and an advisor in the Royal Council. And one day, Father had said, it would be Bruce’s turn to take over these duties and become the Lord Paramount of Gotham, Warden of the East and head of House Wayne.

Young Bruce Wayne, little master of his house, couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come. His mother had just tucked him in after reading him a story. He wanted to spend more time with Ace. Earlier that day, for his 10th name day, his parents had given him a gift. A chestnut yearling; bred from the king’s own warhorse, his father had said. He was going to be a good horse for Bruce. A strong horse for the only heir of the House of Wayne.

His mother had sat behind an easel as she painted Bruce astride his new saddle on his new horse, whom he had named Ace, while Alfred, their faithful butler, had held the reins tight. His father looked down at his mother and kissed the skin on her shoulder where her soul mark was scribed, in old script as elegant as the rest of her. For Mother did not just carry the usual mark of a sigil. Hers was a phrase from a mostly forgotten ancient language. She had turned, Bruce’s father smiling, her hand on his side, where the same phrase had appeared on his skin when he was fifteen. They had consulted several soul mark scholars whose sole vocation was to pore over various sigils, symbols, and languages that comprised all the known soul marks in the land. They had even sought an audience in the Citadel, the center of all great learning in the country. All everyone could tell was that it was a phrase and it said..._ before the dawn, _although nobody could seem to agree what that meant. Finally, both of them had decided it didn’t matter anymore; they hadn't needed to know what it meant, only that they had found each other.

Bruce wanted what they had. He would overhear adults gossiping during the big boring banquets. Soul marks were strange fickle things; there were cases of people who shared the same mark but did not experience what was called a true bond, that instantaneous and almost magical connection if one could only find it, which was considered quaint by the majority. There were many that never carried a soul mark at all, and many more that had marks but never met their soul mates. It was accepted by most that it was a big world out there, and travel between continents was a laborious process. It was likely that people that shared the same mark could be separated by distance, or maybe time; it was never truly certain. There were those that had spent their lives and resources searching for the one; some found love, while some found only madness.

People like Bruce's parents, true soul-bonded mates, were indeed very few and far between. His father had told him how one day in a crowded hall at court his heart had tripped and hammered in his chest like nothing he had experienced before; how he had just known without a doubt that his true mate was nearby, and that he must find that person. The stars had aligned for them that day, for in a fortuitous incident, his mother had dropped her glove as she had hurried out of the crowded hall with her escort. Thomas Wayne had happened to be in the same hallway, and had instinctively picked up the errant glove from the floor in the same moment she had stopped and turned to reach down for it. The bare skin of their hands had brushed for the briefest moments; they both had stood up suddenly as if they had touched something very hot, the glove forgotten on the floor, for they could not help but gaze at each other.

“Bruce, I knew without a doubt it was her from that moment on; she was the one. Before your mother I simply existed, but the instant I met her was when I began to truly live. There is nothing quite like it when your soul finds its true mate,” his father had explained one day, in simple yet deeply-felt words, for such was his nature. Bruce himself couldn’t wait for his soul mark and his mother had assured him it would come, in its own time.

Bruce had gone to bed tired, on the day of the grand feast for his 10th name day. It had been a lovely feast, with minstrels, dancing, drink and food, and all the sweet cake his heart desired. All had agreed it was a celebration truly befitting the first-born son of one of the noblest families in the land, a boy who would never want for anything. While he slept, he dreamt of the new horse his father had given him. In his dream he was a brave knight with armor that shone blindingly in the sun, fighting a dragon with his trusty steed, protecting his mate from the wrath of the monstrous creature. Ace was strong and big and the best horse in all the land, for in the dream he had wings like the Pegasus in his books. They flew high above the clouds, and Bruce threw his spear deep into the dragon’s heart. And as the dragon fell, its terrifying roar filled the air as it unleashed a torrent of fire at Bruce. But Bruce was high above the clouds with Ace, and the dragon was about to crash to the ground; Bruce knew the fire would never reach him. Except he saw the dragon’s fire was not burning out. It became bigger and bigger, and it was alive—a fiery, angry creature shrieking at him as it came at him. The creature had frightening black armor, big red eyes that glowed, metal spikes for teeth, and large clawed wings that were made of bone and metal, dripping dark red blood. He could feel his mate’s fear through their bond. Bruce knew he had to protect his mate; he must kill this monster—

_Wake up!_

An urgent voice inside his head was begging him. Bruce couldn’t understand why he needed to wake up. The monster was here, and it wasn’t a dream, he must protect—

_Bruce! _The voice came once again, full of fear and concern.

He awoke with a start. After a moment, he realized he was in his room in the castle, alone, and there was no one that needed his protection, no monster about to slay him, no dragon-fire about to burn him—yet he was gasping for air. Somehow, in that space between sleeping and waking, he realized that smoke had filled his room, clawing into his lungs. There were screams outside his door; his heart pounded in his chest, for he had just woken up from one nightmare into another. Out of his room he ran into the haze of the long hallway to his parents’ room. The door was ajar, and he stopped, frozen at the sight of his father lying on the floor by the bed unmoving within a growing pool of blood flowing from his nearly severed head. His mother was on the floor, too, her head bent away from her body at a strange angle. And her eyes were open, fixed at Bruce, while he stood by the door in terrified silence. A man in black bent over his mother and touched her face; and then, to Bruce’s horror, he placed a hand on Bruce's mother’s thigh and began tearing her long dress with his knife.

Something hot and angry flared within Bruce that burnt through his fear. Before any thought could form in his head, he burst into the room and fell upon the man. Stunned, the man did not even notice until it was too late that Bruce had taken hold of a knife. Bruce felt the man grab his leg, felt the deadly grasp of his large rough hand. He twisted his body in the way that Alfred had once showed him, and the knife hit its mark squarely in the man’s left eye; Bruce felt it dig into the man. The man howled in anger and pain and let go of Bruce, throwing him across the room. The man’s face was covered with blood spurting from his eye. Bruce could hear footsteps, more screams. He was quick and had bolted out of the room even as his leg flared in pain; and the man was right behind him, calling out, “Get that bastard, you idiots!”

Bruce raced along the hallway, hoping his father’s guards would come and help; he could not have known then that they were all dead, slaughtered in their sleep after they drank poisoned wine. Bruce’s heart pounded loud in his ears, but he was faster than the man, and he made it back into his room and crawled under his bed, sliding into the secret passage his father had showed him not so long ago. “This is here to protect you, my son. I have many enemies. If the time comes when Mother and I cannot protect you, you must run and live. Grow strong and avenge us.”

Through the secret passage beneath his room, out of the house and into the woods, Bruce ran as fast as he could until his chest hurt with breathing. He stopped; silence surrounded him, but for the sound of his own raspy breaths. He had never been in the woods at night, and the trees here were ghostly wet-looking things, dark, with long twisted limbs. The crack of twigs to his right shattered the quiet. He held his breath and listened: a soft chittering was coming from somewhere behind him. He pressed himself flatter against the tree he was leaning on. The chittering noises grew louder, coming from everywhere and nowhere—from inside the tree. He turned to run and his foot caught against a gnarled root. He fell to the ground; it was wet, covered in dead leaves and mud. Bruce scrambled to get up, and as he did his gaze fell on the massive tree, dead and hollow before him. The chittering grew louder until a great swell of black surged from the darkness of the hollow, surrounding Bruce. Everywhere around him were black wings hitting him, the shrill noises they made deafening him. Bruce tried his best to see, to escape the wings and the noises, but all around him was blackness, and all he could think of was the blood red of the floor, the wet dark pooling around Mother and Father. He flung his arms wildly around himself to make it all go away. He ran, then stumbled once again; this time he did not feel himself fall to the ground, for the darkness gave way to nothing.

_Thirty- five years later… _

Two carriages came rattling around the corner. As the first carriage, made of fine oiled oak and gilded metal, drew nearer, the horses’ gait slowed down, struggling against the rise of the hilly terrain—and no doubt also aggravated by the fact that the present occupant of said carriage, Lord Winterbottom, was not only a pompous affair of a man dressed in a garish combination of silk and fur, but possessed of a belly that would rival that of a milking sow. And he smelled like one, too. An unfortunate mix of a generous application of fragrant oils and perfumes combined with an even more unfortunate affliction of profuse sweating. Inside the coach with Winterbottom was Cassius Payne, his manservant, a bull of a man: all shoulders and no neck, a hulking presence a full head and shoulders above the next-tallest man Bruce had ever seen. He was also very handy with knives and pistols.

Frankly, Bruce felt pity for the man, having to be always within proximity of his odiferous master. But no one would dare complain about Lord Winterbottom to his face because of his wealth and his ties to the crown—and because those that did were killed. The odious earl knew this, and pressed his advances on the vulnerable: his men stole away young children from the very poor. Families too powerless or too fearful to complain to their local lords. Very young girls and boys, to be sold off to brothels, mines and farms.

Bruce's left calf nudged his horse’s flank gently. Ace gave a soft whicker and stepped quietly to the right. After a few minutes of watching the coaches, Bruce used a poisoned dart from his crossbow to incapacitate the coachman of the second carriage. He pushed the driver aside and slid smoothly into his place; the occupants of the second carriage peered at him with frightened eyes from between the bars that closed in the carriage, for it was in fact a prison wagon. Bruce hoped that the first carriage would not notice what had happened to the second. He placed a finger in front of his helm to ask them to keep silent. They nodded, terrified into obedience. Bruce heard the other wagon stop, and he smiled behind his helm. While it would have been easier, simpler, convenient, if he had not be noticed at all, he could not quite convince himself to rue this turn of events. It seemed that he would have the chance to fight Cassius after all.

After dispatching Cassius, Winterbottom, and the first carriage's coachman, Bruce turned his attention to the occupants of the second carriage. There were ten of them, dressed in coarse homespun clothing of undyed wool, covered in dust and dirt. All gaunt, and all bearing wounds left by whippings. But their eyes were wide with fear, for they had heard stories of the Dark Knight. Some said he was a demon, some said he was an angry spirit of the forest; while some said he was a madman, given to eating the flesh of those who wandered into his path.

Bruce took the reins of the cart and turned to its frightened occupants. “If you don’t want to fall off, hold fast!” Too frightened to answer, the children held on to the sides of the cart and to each other.

After an hour of hard riding, they stopped. They had come upon the edge of the forest. For most of them, this was the farthest they had ever been. They were at the edge of Gotham, where the massive rock cliffs faced the great sea.

Bruce scanned the frightened children before him and saw a young lad, slightly taller than the rest, who regarded him not with fear but with open curiosity. “You there, can you handle the cart?”

“Aye, my lord!” The boy almost leapt up from where he was huddled with the others.

“Good. And what is your name?”

“Tim, Sire.” He bowed.

The boy seemed eager to obey him. Bruce pointed at the promontory in the distance. “Ride towards the cliff. You will come upon Arkham Abbey at the sea’s edge. Mother Thompkins is the abbess. Tell her your story. If she deems you worthy, she will take you in and tend to you. Hurry now before the sun sets.”

“Yes, Your Lordship!” Tim bowed once again before he took the reins from Bruce’s hand. Within his helm Bruce found himself almost amused at the boy’s enthusiasm.

When Bruce mounted his own horse, he could see Tim square his shoulders, sitting up straight, proud of the task he had been given. “What are you waiting for?” he said gruffly. “Go, now!”

“Beg your pardon, my lord.” Tim hesitated then took a deep breath. “Thank you, sir. Forever grateful…” He bowed once again, then raised his head expectantly—but when he did, the Dark Knight was nowhere to be seen. There was only the darkening forest and the encroaching mist. He turned towards the others in the cart. “Where did he go? He was just here!”

“He vanished into the woods. Like a demon!” cried the youngest of them.

Tim regarded the woods. He could see nothing but the stones, the trees, the brambles, the creeping mist.

“Tim! Remember what he said—we must go now!” another child cried out. And with that Tim tightened his grip on the reins and snapped them sharply. The cart lurched forward and off they went, in the direction of the craggy cliff.

In the boughs of a mighty tree now enveloped by the night mist, Bruce watched for a time until he was sure they were on the right path. He pursed his lips and made a low whistle. In a moment his black stallion silently trotted to the tree; Bruce quickly lowered himself to the horse, and together they turned and disappeared into the forest.

Bruce stopped at the edge of a clearing, made a sharp whistle and held out his gauntleted arm. Above him, a loud screech answered back; a peregrine falcon dove down before gently alighting on Bruce’s arm. Bruce gave him a treat from his pocket.

“Ahh, my dear Robin. Did you have a good hunt?”

The bird screeched once again then cooed softly when Bruce offered the dried meat. Bruce smiled fondly at the bird and remembered what Lucius had said about insulting the majestic bird by naming him Robin. The robin had been his mother’s favorite bird: a sign of spring, she had said to him, during one of their walks in her garden. Bruce shook off the thought and slipped a paper into the capsule tied around Robin’s leg.

But it was never that easy. Bruce put a hand to his chest as a memory overtook him. Hard as he ran, the men that had attacked the castle had still found him. He had been a shaking mess, howling as he fell into the massive tree hollow and its nest of bats. They had taken him. He had heard they were supposed to kill him, but they had kept him alive in a small dark room with just a bucket to relieve himself with. They hadn’t given him anything to eat on the first day. All he had was a half-cup of brackish water. Then, on the third day of his capture, his own soul mark appeared. It had been faint at first: a five-sided shield, a bat in its midst with its wings spread out entwined into a symbol like a river that flowed within the shield. When they had ripped off his sleep shirt, the men had seen the mark by his shoulder. They'd laughed and sneered at him. Then a man with a bandaged eye had come and stood over him. “The master said not to kill you, but he said nothing about this.” They had dragged him out of his cell and to the blacksmith’s forge.

It felt like at this very moment he stood in front of that forge, his body sweating and shaking. He could still feel how hot it had been in front of the forge. He could still smell his skin as the hot brand had sank into the skin like it was melted fat…the laughter. _ Are you crying, princeling? _ The smell of his terror, piss mixed with the meaty odor of burnt skin. And the pain that had come after…

Back in his room, he had bitten his sleeve as he cried, to muffle the sounds of his sobbing, terrified that the men outside might hear him, until finally he had fallen into a fitful sleep. 

_ Bruce! _ That same voice that had woken him up days before had called for him. _ Bruce _ , came the urgent voice once again. _ Be strong. _ Bruce hadn't even been able to remember his legs moving; but somehow he had found his way to the door of his cell, and had found it unlocked. The men guarding him had been sprawled drunk on the floor. Quietly, in a daze and without really knowing where he was going, Bruce had escaped.

When his uncle’s men and Alfred had found him, he had been lying by a tree in the woods, half dead from the burn wound that had festered. Alfred and Lucius had been able to nurse him back to health and he had healed. The skin over his chest had scarred. The scar formed a rough circle that was a red, thick, and twisted thing over his soul mark. For the longest time he had thought it was ugly and it had made him angry; he had felt that his soul mate would never find him. But the time came when Bruce had begun to believe that soul marks and soul mates were good things—things that were never meant for him. It had occurred to him as he sat there on the cold earth of his prison many years ago that his parents had died together just before dawn … exactly as had been inscribed on both his parents' skin.

Two elderly men, both with distinguished streaks of gray, stood on the balcony of the castle. Alfred Pennyworth and Lucius Fox had been serving the Wayne family in the same way their parents did. The sun was lower in the sky. Downstairs in the ballroom the servants were almost done preparing for the spring ball.

Lucius, the less gray-haired of the two of them, asked, “Do you know where he is?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here. He remembered to send the falcon this time.” Alfred cast a wary eye in the direction of the stables.

“You’ve been telling me not to worry for the past twenty-five years,” Lucius grumbled, as was his regular manner.

“Young men with a mind for revenge need little encouragement. They need guidance. He has chosen this life.”

“Alfred, it was chosen for him. And may I just remind you, he is not young anymore.”

“He’s here.” Alfred heard Robin give a shrill call from his perch on the mews. Moving briskly and efficiently, both of them went down a set of hidden stairs to quickly help their master get ready to prepare for his late entrance to his own banquet.

“All this excitement is a welcome distraction from what’s been going on. Highwaymen becoming bolder and bolder. I fear for my safety,” the matriarch of Vale announced as she fanned herself vigorously, the better to demonstrate how disturbed she was.

Bruce sauntered into the drawing room from the direction of the stables. He tilted another apologetic nod at his stewards for he knew they would never stop worrying. He bit down to keep silent through the pain that shot up from his right leg. It hadn't been an easy heist; Winterbottom’s manservant had not only been a big man, but moved quick and hit hard. Bruce had hit harder, and had used one of his own knives on him to make a quick escape.

“Don’t fear, my lady, I will protect you,” Bruce said as he executed a gallant bow and kissed her hand. “I am late to my own banquet; I have behaved so poorly. One of my mares is giving birth and is having such a hard time at it.”

“And how is she now?”

“Mother and baby are healthy.”

“My, you have such great hands, my lord.” The woman batted her lashes. She had planted herself directly in Bruce’s path. She was the wife of a lord who owned one of the larger lands, and was never shy about using her connections at court. This made it harder for him to escape.

Across the room he espied one of the sons of the king’s cousin—the man winked at Bruce, and Bruce winked back. Damn it.

Oblivious to all of that, the woman took him by the arm. “Have you met my daughter, Victoria? Victoria, this is—"

“Lady Vale, I haven’t had the honor.” He turned to the young woman and bowed gracefully. “My lady, it is truly a pleasure.” Bruce kissed her hand; his lips lingered longer than what was considered proper.

Her mother didn’t seem to mind as she looked on approvingly. She knew that this powerful and wealthy man was very hard to please, and for him to display even a modicum of interest was very promising. The man was fifth in line to the throne; this was the closest they could get to marrying royalty. The young lady didn’t seem to mind either as she tittered nervously and curtsied. “My lord,” she said breathlessly as she flushed down to the skin of her ample bosom.

From the looks of her, Bruce could tell that she had just come of age. It would be exciting to get the first taste of her, if there weren’t another promising prospect across the room. The young Lord Oliver Starling—present heir to the ridiculously named Star Castle. With blond hair glinting in the sun and his lean, nubile body angled strategically at Bruce, he leaned against the fireplace—the curve of his ass was presented directly to Bruce’s line of sight as Bruce bent and flicked the tip of his tongue at the Lady Vale’s wrist. It was a very vexing choice to make.

Later, as he gripped that blond hair and fucked the young lord against a library desk, he was mostly satisfied with the choice he had made, for the time being. After all, there would have been quite simply too much work involved in getting rid of Lady Vale’s chaperone for a walk in the rose garden.

Bruce Wayne, the Lord of Gotham, was known far and wide not only for being one of the most handsome or possibly the handsomest in most lands depending on who you asked, leaving swooning maids and males in his wake. Taller than most men, with a muscular physique uncommon in nobles of his generation, and distinguished silver streaks already mixing with his dark hair—only serving to make him look far more dashing, instead of old, at least as far as court gossip went. He could bed anyone he chose, be it female or male. He had a prime selection from the noble families of this land. And, in fact, he had bedded beauties from the north to the south and from the east to the west, from within and outside his borders. Privileged families from across the lands decided he should marry one of their daughters, for it would be a shame to have such a big estate without a lady. Bruce considered a few of them quietly, on the off chance that he might find the one, but typically dismissed them after a brief dalliance. Soon it became clear to most that for now he abhorred marriage and preferred a single carefree life.

For Bruce, the dream he once had to have what his parents had was long gone. Soul mates: to find the one; to be fated to each other; these were all things not meant for him. Happiness was quaint, something to occupy you temporarily in between the terrible events in one’s life. His parents had been happy, he knew that; but fate had taken that away from them. At least they had died together.

He downed his whiskey and slowly pressed at his chest. The wound had never healed well, and the thick twisted scar, though numb sometimes, at other times twinged with a sharp, piercing ache that had a bad habit of reminding him what he had gone through. It also didn’t help that, as Alfred would say, he subjected his body to unusual physical rigors. He constantly traveled far and wide within the surrounding lands, and even beyond the borders of his country, as far as the ancient lands of the Middle East for the Wayne family. Everyone thought it was because the Waynes were heavily involved in trade and shipping; that was partly true. Only Alfred and Lucius knew what strange malady drove his restlessness. For the rest, he was the elusive bachelor with the rakish grin, who frequented only the fine brothels of his city. The word in polite society was that only by the wisdom and grace of his very skilled and capable stewards, Lucius Fox and Alfred Pennyworth, were all his scandalous affairs kept discreet, and his fortune intact. And his uncle Phillip Wayne, the present Lord Paramount of Gotham, indulged him because of what had happened to his parents. Nobody really saw the smile did not quite reach his eyes—no one knew that in his private moments, his mood was dark and melancholic, and tha the was given to more solitary pursuits: study, and hunting, and still more dangerous habits that he kept secret.

SBSBSBSBSB

Time passed along. Across all of Gotham and its neighboring lands, the legend of a dark, caped knight came into being and grew. Various nobles wanted his head. They feared him, for among the peasants he was thought of as an avenging spirit meting out punishment to anyone he saw fit. Over the years he had forged a secret alliance with Lord James Gordon, the High Sheriff of the Eastern Lands, of which Gotham was a part.

“Whole families are disappearing, Bruce. At first everyone just thought that the tenants of these farmlands had moved on, as you are well aware it is not entirely unheard of. But that’s not it. Just two weeks ago, a farmer and his family had gone to their cousins at the Northern Border; they were expected back this week. The steward of that farm wanted them dragged to the magistrate to pay fines for not coming back as promised, since it’ll be barley sowing in a week—that is how I got wind of the situation. I sent a man over to Bludhaven, where the cousin lives, and he says the family never came at all.”

“And most of those that disappeared are from the most northern towns?”

The High Sheriff seemed to think so, although there was no official count yet. “There’s nothing up there but mountain ridges, and pockets of forest here and there.”

Bruce brooded over the map on the table. It was a large territory; a man could get lost there if he didn’t know what he was doing. But something gnawed at him as he studied the map. He needed to go there.

“I’ll ride out in two days.”

Alfred and Lucius, of course, were not pleased. Several arguments were raised about him haring off alone to some mountain. It wasn’t Bruce’s job to look into these matters, Lucius had said; he was the Lord of Gotham, for heaven’s sake. Alfred proposed to go with him, for he was not looking forward to lying to Bruce’s Uncle Phillip. That was not going to happen, however, as both Bruce and Lucius objected to that idea soundly.

Once again, Bruce wore his black armor and helm. It had no identifying marks on it except for the sigil of a large bat with its wings spread on his breastplate. No metalsmith had made it in this country. It was from the Middle East, for their metallurgy was far more clever, in his judgment. They made the strongest armor from the lightest alloys. Light armors that you could move in, that could take a lot of punishment.

Three days later, as Bruce Wayne, Lord of Gotham made his way up the mountain path, he pulled his cloak closer, and thought ruefully that perhaps he should’ve listened to his stewards after all. Faint mists curled lazily on the ground; the colder air had come down. It was expected, this close to the mountains. As he made progress, the mist turned into a thickening fog. It began to obscure his path, but still he was untroubled. He picked his way carefully through the path high along the mountain’s ridge. His horse Ace—as faithful and as intelligent as the predecessor of the same name—followed his lead without displaying any impatience.

And then suddenly, through the trees, Bruce saw a caravan of five wide carriages trudging along the forest road below him. Instinct told him to follow it. When he drew closer, he saw the carts were full of people, all bound. One of the carts was filled with gold and various metals. The strange procession went into one of the larger caves within the mountain. Bruce stopped, careful to keep a hidden vantage point behind a large boulder. He saw a large stooped figure of a man dressed in thick armor by the cave's entrance—a one-eyed man with a scar across his face. His heart raced, for he had been trying to find such a man for decades now. This was why he had needed to come here.

Then something emerged from the cave that chilled Bruce’s chest. It was a large creature, three feet taller than Bruce. Another came out, just as large as the other. Both watched the caravan with glowing red eyes, inside heads that were metal and bone fused together, as far as Bruce could tell. They were like men, being that they stood upright and had arms and legs, but that was where the similarity ended. They hissed and chittered loudly at the terrified people in the carts, baring teeth that were metal spikes driven into the metal jaws of their mouth. The creatures wore a kind of armor with gigantic mechanical wings; they had large claws instead of hands, and weapons that were made from metal that Bruce had never seen before, glowing a hot red. There were gears and large metal spikes fused to their arms and torsos. What sort of magic or science had brought about creatures like that—and, more importantly, how was he supposed to hurt such a creature, much less kill it? And if there were two here, surely there must be others.

The one-eyed man yelled at the villagers to disembark. More of the fell creatures came out of the cave, and started pushing the people towards the mouth of the cave. 

Without warning, one of the creatures gave off a very shrill noise. Its ugly red eyes now stared at Bruce.

_ Fuck. They know I’m here. _

Before he managed another thought, the boulder he was hiding behind exploded. The explosion threw him to the ground. Bruce clambered to his feet; in the time it took, he saw, five of the creatures had taken flight and were about to reach him. Pain racking every bone in his body, he managed to shoot at the nearest one with the crossbow mounted on his arm, and the bolt flicked against the creature’s armor like a useless toy. Bruce shot at its eye quickly—he did not need to reload the crossbow, for he had crafted it to shoot multiple arrows. The arrow found its target, and the creature shrieked. The others started towards him; the one- eyed man just watched with a sneer on his face, while the villagers cowered behind the carts.

Bruce tried his sword, but it broke against the creature’s body like a stick. They were swift and strong, and tactics that worked on men would not work on them. Bruce was convinced he was going to die when they swarmed at him, grabbing his arms and legs.

Suddenly, the monsters around him were wrested away one by one by a gold rope that whipped out from nowhere. Around him, the metal monsters were dragged to the ground, and in the midst of then was a woman. A woman that moved like a whirlwind, cutting down the metal beasts with her sword, her shield, and that strange golden rope. In a matter of minutes, most of them were dismembered, parts of flesh and metal on the ground. Bruce huffed ruefully. He managed to deal some damage himself, though not as spectacularly, by striking the weak, fleshy parts of some of the creatures—a task that grew easier when, in the midst of the fight, the woman threw him a short sword to use instead of the broken half-blade that remained of his own weapon. The villagers looked in awe at her, or at least those who weren’t terrified.

Then the woman threw the golden rope around the one-eyed man; the rope began to glow, and Bruce could see it draw tighter around him as it coruscated with a golden light.

“Speak. Who do you work for?”

“What are you doing?” Bruce demanded.

“The Lasso of Hestia will compel him to tell the truth. It will be painful if he resists,” the woman said firmly.

The man struggled to speak. Bruce could see he fought against the power of this rope. The man began to sweat profusely and piss his pants. This man had killed his parents and tortured Bruce—but he was a hired underling and nothing more, a cruel man but just a puppet. Bruce clenched his fists, for still he couldn't help wanting to tear the man apart right there. This insignificant rat had taken everything he had…

“Speak!”

“My lady, I don’t know who he is. I never see his face—” He began to tremble violently.

Bruce clutched the man’s neck tight in barely controlled anger. “Who gave you the order to kill the Lord and Lady of Gotham? Tell me! Tell me!” The man was gasping under his hand and pissing more.

“Dark Knight! Let him go!” The woman held a knife to Bruce's throat, still wielding the Lasso with the other, the one-eyed man still crying, trembling, and pissing away as he knelt on the ground.

Reluctantly, Bruce relented.

“One more time, tell me who you work for!” The Lasso glowed fiercely this time.

“It burns! It burns! Stop it, please! I can’t—” The man howled in wretched pain. He fell to the ground writhing, screaming.

“You’re killing him! Let him go!”

“This is not the Lasso. It is something else!” she said to Bruce. She turned back to the one-eyed man. “Let him go, you who possess this soul—let him go! The Lasso of Hestia compels you! Let him go!” The man shook violently on the ground, frothing at the lips, then stilled.

Bruce quickly felt his pulse and checked his breathing. “He is dead.”

“He has been for a long while now, even before his breath left him. What was left was a man with no soul, a mindless servant.”

As much as he wanted to tie the man to his horse and drag him, there was no point anymore; what remained was a mission to accomplish. The people, about 50 of them total, men, women and children, had all been taken by the monsters. Some of them stated that there were more, but they hadn’t seen the others in some time. Bruce told them to get on the carts and ready themselves to ride to the nearest village and see the magistrate there. Quickly, he called Robin and wrote a note for James Gordon; with the capsule secured, when Robin went home to the castle, Alfred would see the note.

Finally, Bruce had an opportunity to study his rescuer. She noticed his stare.

“Dark Knight, may I have a word?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Bruce knelt on the ground and presented her sword to her. “I am grateful for your assistance.”

They had moved out of earshot from the villagers. Bruce regarded her quietly and waited for her to speak.

The warrior woman had on a black cloak that was made of long black feathers, shimmering as they caught some of the afternoon sunlight. In his extensive travels he had never seen feathers such as those. She removed her hood, and Bruce could appreciate the rest of her strange garb. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful: large brown eyes, high cheekbones, and olive skin. As if she were a Greek goddess from one of his books. Around her long dark locks was a golden tiara. She had on a crimson cuirass and a blue battle skirt, similar to what Greek warriors wore. Around her waist was a gold belt, and on her right side coiled a strange rope that seemed alive as gold light coruscated along its circumference. Bruce thought that she seemed unperturbed by the cold temperature, though her shoulders and legs were bare. Thick leather gauntlets, metal foot guards, shin guards, and strange boots that went past her knees completed her armor.

“I am Diana, Princess of Themyscira. And you are the Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne of the land of Gotham.”

Bruce had not removed his helm all this time and was taken aback by her greeting. “My lady,” he said as he rose slowly, “forgive me—I fear you are mistaken.”

“Let us not waste time, Dark Knight. I know who you are, the burdens you bear, the scars that refuse to heal.” Her brown eyes pinned him to the spot; they seemed to look through him.”You have seen unnatural things, these creatures, parademons they are called. They are but the scouts of the coming darkness. You have seen it in your nightmares.”

Bruce sighed. “What do you know of them? They torment me so even in my sleep. It started when I was young. At first few and far in between, they came as terrors in the night. Now for the past month they have been relentless, not giving me a moment of peaceful sleep. And I see myself—”

“Fighting them?”

He nodded.

“True. Thousands of years ago when this world was very different, the Dark God wanted this world as his. Our Dark Knight fought his fearsome Destroyer, his beloved fought the Dark God. Because of them, this world was not lost.”

“What became of them?”

“Thousands fell under the Destroyer’s blade. The Knight was as fierce as he was wise, yet he too fell. Even with his soul taken, the Knight’s beloved avenged his death, the Dark God and his horde driven away by their sacrifice. Only you, Dark Knight, can find the key! The Dark God had three mother boxes. Each have power beyond life and death. After the war, they were hidden; now one has been taken. The other is still in its stronghold, and the third is hidden here in your world. The Dark God must never have all three. The key—you must find before it is too late.”

“If your people know of these things, then why don’t the lot of you save the world yourselves? If this Dark God wants to end us, maybe it should. Gods are petty, the world is tired and cruel; maybe it should all end.”

“I could leave this world and leave you to your ruin. But unlike my sisters, I still believe that your world deserves to be saved.”

“Then, once again, why do you need me? You are clearly not human and very powerful.” Bruce Wayne found it odd, the ease with which those words came out of his mouth—and odder still, the feeling that this wasn’t the first time he had uttered them. “I am only human. I fight greedy lords, thieves, and murderers. I know nothing about fighting gods and fell creatures.”

“You will see, human, that all evil is one and the same. But you have been chosen; everything that has happened to you has been leading to this very day.”

Bruce Wayne felt slightly heady with her words, his breath stolen from him. Her simple words struck something within him, stirred something in his soul that told him that what the princess said rang true.

“All right,” he said, almost resigned. “But what about them?” He gestured to the frightened villagers. They all were in the carts, but instead of going, they waited for him with anxious eyes.

“I will take care of them. Make sure they arrive safely to their homes.”

“Maybe you are mistaken—“

“Bruce,” she admonished him. “Your soul knows who you are, and what you have been through, not only in this life.”

“You speak in riddles. Yet a part of me does not doubt you. It is the strangest thing. Tell me where I can find this key.”

“Follow your instincts and hurry! The veil between space and time has been weakened. They may not know yet what has been done, but soon they will. Go north; things that should not be there are there now!” Quickly, she mounted her horse and spurred it into a gallop as she said the last word. 

“Wait!” he yelled out after her as he urged his horse to follow, but somehow she had vanished, horse and all, into the thick mist that descended so quickly into the forest. And more disconcertingly the villagers, the horses, the carts, had vanished with her. One moment they were there; the next moment they were gone as the entire forest was shrouded in the extremely dense fog.

“Damn you, Gordon! What in the seven hells have you gotten me into?” Bruce paused and looked back at the path he had come from. “Go north, she says. I am already in the fucking north,” he muttered as he pulled his knight’s cloak tighter around himself.

He continued until he entered a dense patch of woods. Puzzled, he finally relented and took the map out of his satchel. The sun above him played hide and seek with the clouds, but his map proved that he had every right to be puzzled—for it held no notation of this wood. His puzzlement grew when he saw towers rising above the thick wood; that was definitely not on his map. He could vouch for the map, for he himself had passed through this part of the country two years ago, and he was certain the castle and these thick woods could not have sprung up in that short a time.

The Lord of Gotham continued riding until he stumbled upon a hamlet. Before he entered the town, he surveyed the woods and found a nearby copse of tall, undisturbed trees. He took off his armor, then bound them together. He climbed the tree and found a thick bough where he could hide his armor; the task done, he came down and covered Ace’s black saddle with common-looking leather. After covering his tracks, he backtracked to the village. The people were peacefully going about their business of daily living—too peacefully for Bruce’s taste, in the midst of these preternatural events. He visited a tavern and downed a stout, and then he waved over the innkeeper. He placed a coin on the table next to his mug, discreetly hidden by his hand from the view of other patrons; and he inquired about the castle in the middle of the woods. The innkeeper gave him a baleful look and eyed the coin, and the lord met him with an icy stare. The innkeeper realized his mistake and lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, sir, I thought my ears was playing tricks on me. There is no castle thereabouts, never has been—and my family has run this inn since my father’s great-grandfather built it.”

Wayne assessed the innkeeper with an unflinching eye, then pushed the coin towards the man. The man, despite his earlier bravado, was now rendered a sycophantic fool. “Thank you, my lord. If there is anything else? Perhaps another drink, or bread.” Bruce dismissed him and left the tavern, his thoughts not on the innkeeper’s ill behavior but his answer. He had the sense that the man had been telling the truth, which, under the circumstances, was far more disquieting than a lie would have been.

From the tavern, he went outside and was about to mount his horse when he saw an old man in a tattered cloak sitting on the ground at the side of the tavern. He asked the old man about the castle, and the peasant looked up at him, weatherbeaten face half hidden in gray shrouds. “M’lord, fifty years ago my father told me there was a castle in the woods where a cursed beauty sleeps, cursed by an angry and jealous mage. Cursed by sleep eternal, awaiting the kiss of the one.”

“The one? The one what?”

“Who knows? All I remember is what I have told you: the beauty is to be woken by the one. As to who that one might be? No _ one _knows.” The old man cackled. “The passage of time blurs these things…” His voice faded into a murmur, till he became still—save for a sudden soft snoring. Bruce was convinced he was about to become one with the gray stone behind him.

“Old man! Sir!”

The old man woke up as readily as he had nodded off. His one uncovered eye regarded Bruce, and Bruce noticed it was a very deep blue, the only thing on him that wasn’t gray. “But surely there must be more than that implausible tale. What happens if hundreds of years go by and no one wakes the cursed one?” Bruce persisted.

“Indeed, sir, for what is a hundred years when one may sleep it all away? It may have been a hundred years already; it may have been many more. How does one know? They say the tower is protected by an ancient magic. The few who have found it have tried to breach its walls, and all have failed.”

“And how do you know these things?” Bruce said, but once again the old man had slipped into deep slumber. Probably had nothing to do all day except get beg and get drunk, Bruce thought. And tell rambling, nonsensical stories.

It had been a strange day and he was tiring of all this bullshit, riddles and magic and mother boxes. Gordon had been wrong, to be sure; there was more to this than just the missing people. But maybe it was time Bruce just went home, back to things he knew and a life he understood. The gods knew he had done what he came to do: he had not failed Gordon, most of the missing villagers were not missing anymore. Gordon could warn the lords of the outlying lands to get more men and weapons to watch their land. There was still the matter of actually telling him about the monsters, which could be a bit tricky, Bruce thought as he sighed deeply. That princess he had met certainly could take care of those brutes if they ever showed up again; she had seemed very earnest and strong. But then he could not shake what all of this had stirred in him, as if some deep longing he could not name had woken up. A part of him wanted to know where those monsters came from and why it was up to him to find the damn key.

While he argued with himself, he could already hear Alfred’s disapproving voice in his head. “One can simply turn away, my lord. And come back to one’s responsibilities.”

But Bruce knew he had reached an impasse within himself; he must pick a course and stick to it. “What should never be here is here,” he said softly to Ace, but mostly to himself. He felt Ace could care less as the horse gave a soft snort. Bruce looked up, and noted the sunset coming on fast. He might as well sleep in the inn before he went riding off again.

When he came back, the innkeeper was more than happy to see him. After another coin, he was shown into a small room with a bed and clean sheets. Later there was a knock on the door and a servant brought in a wash-basin and a large pitcher of hot water. Another servant brought him fresh bread and meat, and a jug of wine that was better than the swill he had drunk downstairs. He cleaned himself quickly, ate his food, put on a clean shirt, and slept fully clothed with his sword next to him. He fell asleep and once again his dreams haunted by fire, by steel winged demons and a voice that called out his name. After breaking his fast the next morning, he retrieved his armor, after he was satisfied that the trees around it had been undisturbed.

TBC

Author’s Note: I made some massive edits and reorganized the chaps since I posted... hopefully it’s a better read :)))


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce rode into the dense wood again. As he neared what he reckoned was the center of the woods where the castle should be, he found himself standing in front of a menacing thicket of thorns that went around the entire castle, effectively barricading it. He dismounted from his horse. The skeletons of the other men that had tried to break through the thicket welcomed him. Some with armor, some without. They were stuck fast in its lethal branches, a gory display of failed efforts. They had become part of the thorny vines, some close to the ground, others higher up the wall; either they had made it that high before they died, or they had actually died closer to the ground, with their bones carried upward by the branches as the thicket grew around them.

From his various studies and pursuits, Bruce ascertained after a careful assessment that it would not be enough to merely hack through these thorny bushes like a madman. After a few moments he was able to deduce the type of vine, and determine its vulnerability. In the dense tangle he found an area of dead, dried-up vines and leaves along with an equally dried up, old skeleton; he took what was left of the skeleton’s shirt, and found it to be good kindling. He took out his tinderbox, and removed his gauntlet to work the flint. In doing so, his bare skin brushed a nearby thorn, and it drew blood. He gasped as a drop of his blood dripped onto the ground, and scolded himself for his carelessness. Unbeknownst to him, the air began to shimmer; the magic that guarded the castle had released its hold.

Bruce watched as the old thorns burned fast and hot. The orange flames climbed up close to the stone wall, and for a moment Bruce thought it would engulf the guard tower, but it did not; the flames only left a blackened wall. After fifteen minutes the flames died down, having burned what they could. Some of the thorny boughs had withstood the heat, but still the fire had done what Bruce had meant it to do; he had far fewer thorny vines to hack through. He was able to easily clear a path, thus preventing himself from being ensnared by the wicked thorns.

A beautiful castle rose before him, with its sheer walls and majestic spires. He hid Ace between the courtyard guard towers, soothing him until he stood quietly, and Bruce knew he would wait there until Bruce came and fetched him. In the courtyard, the Lord of Gotham saw horses that stood still, with eyes closed; even small animals lay motionless on the ground. Unperturbed by the scene before him, he boldly entered the palace. The castle was empty. There were tables, drapes, food, and drinks still laid out on the long table of the main hall. It was as if whoever had been there had just gotten up and left hurriedly. Where outside the wood was alive with the noises of different forest creatures, within the castle walls it was dead still.

Bruce passed into the banquet hall. Faded tapestries declared the name of the castle's masters as the Royal House of Kent. Bruce had vague memories of an old kingdom here by such a name a long time ago, but that was before any Wayne had settled on the continent.

The sun was high in the sky, streaming shafts of light filled with dust motes through the towering stained windows. Several layers of dust and even cobwebs covered everything around Bruce. Without fear and definitely very intrigued, he went in search of the sleeping beauty who was supposedly the source of all of it, while the words of the princess of Themyscira echoed inside his head.

The knight found himself at the steps of the highest tower. The tower had wide winding steps that could easily fit 5 men walking abreast. The tower room itself, he saw when he reached it at last, was large and well-furnished. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, Bruce made his way to the middle of the room, and came upon a great canopied bed covered with deep red velvet. He had finally found the sleeping beauty of the tales, it seemed. He drew away the heavy, dust-laden drapes around the bed.

“Well, surprise, surprise.” It was a …male. He shook his head and rued the fact that he let these tales establish a preconceived notion of what he was supposed to find.

Dark curly hair surrounded a sallow face with a noble jawline, which would have been handsome if the man's face hadn't been so gaunt. Bruce touched a hand to the man's forehead and instantly drew away from the soul-chilling cold he felt. The lord’s forehead creased. The one laying there seemed satisfactory enough, if he wasn’t a corpse. He was dressed in clothes typical of the day when time had stopped for him. A fine shirt, tastefully embroidered with threads of red and gold, which had somehow maintained its pristine colors even after all these years. Dark blue velvet breeches and black leather boots completed his attire. His body seemed frail, almost skeletal, sunken into the deep richness of the bed’s furs and silk.

Bruce Wayne sighed softly, disappointed. He wondered who could have cursed this beauty. For the man on the bed was indeed cursed; while the horses in the courtyard were well preserved, he wasn’t. He was gaunt, emaciated with gray pallor. His lashes were still dark and thick, and seemed far too heavy for the sunken cheeks. A stray curl had fallen over his forehead; Bruce couldn’t help but brush it away from his smooth forehead. And he was cold, so cold Bruce felt the chill linger in the bones of his fingertips even as he withdrew his hand. There was no doubt he was a corpse.

In his life Bruce Wayne had seen and done a number of things, and indulged in far more wide-ranging pursuits than might be deemed wise or conventionally acceptable; still, he drew the line at necrophilia. However, that did not make the trip a waste, he thought, as his eyes fell upon a most curious piece of jewelry around the man's neck. Strange, certainly, for it was a collar, about two fingers' width across, with intricate glyphs unfamiliar to him—but lovely, too, and inlaid in the middle was a green jewel. Bruce leaned in closer and lifted it away from the man's skin, so he could examine it more closely.

The collar was not only peculiar but rather ostentatious; Bruce had never been given to wearing such gaudy things. It was made from a smooth black metal that gleamed, thick and solid; the glyphs were carved and inlaid with gold, and in the midst of it all was that striking green jewel. Bruce peered at it closely, and found its facets very deep and brilliant. He looked up—time had passed, the sun had shifted in the sky, and now stray shafts of light fell through the shaded windows. They played over the sleeping male’s face, casting delicate streams of illumination that made his mien suddenly less deathlike. But—no. Bruce decided it was probably his eyes playing tricks on him in this ill-lighted room; he needed time for his vision to adjust.

“You would not be needing this, would you? Let me borrow it for now,” he said as he reached around toward the nape of the man's neck and unclasped the collar. It was not really stealing. He did not even need another jewel, he was more than wealthy; but something about this one fascinated him: the jewel itself, the way its depths reflected the most verdant and unusual green. The glyphs, too—a script he had never encountered before. He was at a loss as to whether the stone was a kind of sapphire or emerald, and since he was never one to let a curiosity or two go by without further inquiry, he secured the collar within his possessions. He looked around the room and decided he still had time to investigate to satisfy his curiosity; perhaps he could find something more that would help him understand the strange glyphs before he moved on to the rest of the castle.

But first he needed more light. It was fortuitous that it was still early in the afternoon and the day continued to be bright. He turned and walked towards the heavy curtained windows, tugged the drapes aside, and drew them open. Sunlight flooded into the room, much to his satisfaction. He felt the warmed air enter the cool, damp room likewise, and from nowhere heard the soft echo of breaths fill the space around him; quickly he turned, and drew his sword. Methodically, he scanned the room—satisfied that he was alone, his gaze fell on the bed’s occupant once again. And Bruce Wayne, Lord of Gotham, became convinced something in the air was wreaking havoc with his senses, for he could see another change once again. He approached the sleeping male carefully.

Gone were the sallow and gaunt features. Somehow the figure in the bed seemed to pull the sunlight that now streamed from the windows into himself so that he glowed, a sleeping angel, effectively muting everything else around him. Bruce noticed dark long eyelashes against the now-perfect marble skin. The jawline had become abruptly more noble; and the once-thin, pale lips were now a perfect red bow, yet did not distract from the maleness of him. Bruce's eyes roamed over his body—for before him was no longer a sunken, gaunt, gray corpse. The sleeping male’s build was … remarkable: broad shoulders and chest, thick thighs, and an impressive bulge curving under his fitted breeches.

Bruce Wayne most certainly was not a stranger to such allure. But even as this vision drew him, all these preternatural events unbalanced him. He loved logic, never involved himself with magic, offered only the most cursory participation in religious rites just to please his lord uncle. This castle that had appeared from nowhere; the sleeping malady that infected this man; the man himself—surely a corpse mere moments ago, and yet not anymore. And, of course, there were the monsters, the mission entrusted to him by the Lady of Themyscira, the longing it had stirred. His sense of precision and order had been eroded. He felt as if he were dreaming.

All he could think was that this beauty had lain here untouched for possibly hundreds of years. What a pity it was; what an unconscionable waste. His resolve not to touch melted away, replaced with a very persistent resolve of another kind entirely, raging from within his loins. The mark on his chest began to throb and ache like never before, but Bruce ignored the ache, distractedly pressing the heel of his hand to his chest to soothe it. Although at that point he would rather have put a hand on his cock, as his eyes slid over the curly black hair peeking from beneath the collar of the sleeping man’s shirt.

This merited further inspection, Bruce thought. He untied the laces, revealing more dark hair upon a wide and muscled chest, and the promise of smooth skin. It was maddening, like he was on the verge of drunkenness, and delirious from opium and henbane all at the same time. The lord gripped the edges he'd unlaced and tore the blouse open. Fighting for a measure of control, he regained some, and slowly and very gently laid back the torn material, exposing the beauty’s bare torso—and as he did so, tiny pinpricks of heat seem to travel from the sleeping man's skin to Bruce’s.

The master of Waynesmoor licked his lips. He knew he was damned for his thoughts alone, and yet his body wanted more—demanded action, within this moment. His cock was achingly hard, and he could think of nothing but the need to possess, to claim this creature that had enchanted him so swiftly. The throbbing ache of his mark was now in rhythm with the rapid beating of his heart. Bruce found himself holding his breath as he laid a palm on that perfect chest, trying to contain the thrill; he exhaled as he felt warm skin under that soft downy hair. God, when had the sleeping man become so warm? He tugged and pinched one dark nipple, and felt it pebble, as he pressed his stubbled jaw close to the sleeping man's ear. He licked at the delicate shape of an earlobe, and whispered—

“You are mine now, Kent.”

He sucked in a breath, and found his hand had pressed itself between the sleeping one’s legs. He was surprised at the hardness he felt there. Was the man truly asleep?

_ Untouched. Now mine. _

“Gods!” Wayne growled. He craved more; whatever marginal sense of decency he might have had was gone; his hands shook as he unlaced the sleeping one’s breeches, striving for control and utterly failing to achieve it. Once unbound, he found Kent’s cock hard and long, just as he had suspected. His breath stuttered—it was amazing, compelling, that although this man was asleep his body was responding to Bruce's touch. He gave that lovely cock a couple of tugs, and dug a hand down to grasp the man's balls, too. God, the heat there—flushed and heavy, ready to fuck, clear fluid glistening on his slit even as his body remained slack.

Somewhere inside the lord’s head, there was a voice that nagged at him: _ This is wrong. _Yet hebelieved that this man’s blood, his whole being, was calling out to him, and he was desperate to answer its longing, and his own longing likewise; but he knew it was still very _ wrong. _It was only that that voice of reason, of control, was drowned out by the blood rushing within in his ears and the heat that roiled inside him. And within a moment, he found himself removing his boots, and then his breeches.

Bruce freed his own cock; his arousal had grown so much he himself wondered how he was able to stand here and bear it. He pressed himself over the man on the bed, all that hard, muscled flesh pliant beneath him—his own Galatea, and Bruce... Pygmalion, shaping him with his hands and body, delighting in the warm friction. He licked trails along the gorgeous neck, biting and sucking as he went and pleased at the purplish marks he left, branding the sleeping man as his own.

His desire was excruciating, merciless; he groaned and gasped and erupted his seed all over Kent’s stomach. He took a shaky breath, laid down next to Kent and chuckled. “God, you will be the death of me, my beauty!”

The lord took a napkin from the side table by the bed, and cleaned up his spend cursorily. Then he reached out and passed a hand over the man’s chin.

“Who did this to you?”

Bruce's fingers caressed the smooth, noble jawline. His hands roamed as he took in more details of his sleeping beauty. Kent’s hands were not calloused, and his skin was unscarred; Bruce doubted he had been a fighter. But Kent possessed the body of one. There was a deeper mystery here. And Bruce of Waynesmoor—the Lord of Gotham, 5th in line to the royal throne; the Dark Knight himself—would very much like to go deeper.

Even though he had just come, it was not long before he hardened once again, and he could not help but delight in his own virility. Those trips to the Far East definitely had been worth it, not least for the various roots and herbs he had brought home with him. He took a fragrant oil from his cloak, and his thoughts swirled with the vast possibilities, the myriad ways he could further debauch his claimed prize. For how else should he look upon this treasure he had found?

He grasped Kent's head, digging his hand into the curly, dense hair. With barely an effort, for the lord of Gotham was as strong as he was broad, Bruce turned his conquest on his stomach. _ Such clean, smooth skin. All mine. _ Kent’s torn shirt was halfway down his arms, binding him; Bruce pulled it behind him tighter and tighter, watching as the constricting fabric made Kent's fair skin flush red against the restraint. The effect only served to further excite him—his scruples had all but disappeared.

Then he saw it. There it was, in the small of Kent's back. The mark. A twin to Bruce's own, or at least to its appearance before it had been burned off. The five-sided sigil; the symmetrical curve inside the sigil; the bat within it, with wings spread. Was this the reason why Bruce couldn’t resist him? The reason why he'd been so weak? Fate had meant for him to be here.

Bruce tried to clamp down on the remorse that had started to encroach upon him. This was his soulmate, Bruce could not do this to him—but it was already too late, for all Bruce wanted right now was to claim him. He wished Kent's eyes were open; he wished for Kent to look at him with hunger, to gasp and moan for him as he did this. Gently, he spread Kent's ass cheeks, held them apart so he could appreciate the puckered hole hidden between: much like the rest of him, unbearably lovely to Bruce's eyes, and thoroughly edible. With his oiled fingers, Bruce traced the sensitive flesh around his beauty’s hole. He felt it contract; he had to control his desire to just plunge himself into Kent, for he felt such a claiming ought to be savored like the rarest of wines, the most delectable of dishes.

He slapped Kent’s ass several times, leaving red marks that were exquisite against such a beautiful canvas. Bruce thrilled as his hands grasped the perfect shape and firmness of it. He gave Kent's ass a rough massage, digging his strong fingers into the cheeks of it. Bruce parted Kent's legs further, bent down and bit at his firm flesh, hard. With two fingers, he entered Kent's hole, and relished its tightness; he could not endure it anymore. Summoning all the control he could muster, Bruce oiled his cock, and then plunged deep inside, pushing each inch of himself into Kent's tight hole. “Gods, you were made to fit me—” Bruce gasped into his ear. He could feel the body beneath him shudder. The shudder inflamed him like a madman; he thrust into Kent hard and deep several times, drawing himself out at length then plunging himself back inside, savoring the tight clench of his prince’s channel. Time slowed down: the world narrowed to nothing but them, nothing but the slow slide of Bruce's cock into his mate, his fated one.

Bruce could not contain the heat anymore. He pounded into Kent harder and faster, urgent, until at last he roared and filled the young man with his hot cum.

Bruce grasped Kent’s head by the hair, twisting it back. “You feel that, don’t you? My claim,” he whispered into Kent's ear roughly.

Still sheathed within the young man, his organ pulsing from his orgasm, he brought down his mouth against the succulent lips, hot and moist and oh-so-sweet, with unrestrained ferocity—Bruce plundered Kent's mouth, tongue stopping only when he felt himself draw blood.

The beauty’s eyes opened. A sharp breath was drawn.

Bruce could feel his thick eyelashes flutter on his cheeks; the eyes themselves were unearthly blue, yet one had a brown speck in it, a most wondrous imperfection. Bruce felt the furious hammering of Kent's heart against his own chest like a trapped butterfly, its wings beating helplessly within its glass cage. Kent's perfect lips parted, gasping for air; Bruce held him so tightly by the hair that he could see the muscles of Kent's neck strain as he struggled.

“Hush now, be still, it is_ me _,” Bruce said voice deep and low against Kent’s skin.

The lord of Gotham knew Kent was shocked deep within himself, as a deer caught by a hunter’s arrow. His pupils were blown wide.

And Bruce was still sheathed inside him. Reluctantly, Bruce withdrew his organ, yet even as he did he felt the young man tremble under him, his head tilting back as a soft moan escaped his lips. They were still like that for a moment, staring at each other, with only the sound of their breaths in between them.

Slowly the lord of Gotham turned Kent onto his back. The now very awake beauty looked down at his own nudity. He pushed himself up slowly, and leaned against the headboard, making no attempts to cover himself. He remained very still as he regarded Bruce with those startlingly blue eyes, strangely vulnerable. To Bruce, he made a most beautiful sight: debauched, innocent, sweaty, a thick curl tumbling loose over his forehead. His legs were askew, spread wide open, everything on full display. The lord of Gotham could see his juices leaking from his young prince. His and his alone. Kent's arms were still bound by his torn shirt, his muscles shifting under the pale flesh as he tried to loosen himself from his bonds.

Bruce let go of Kent's hair and pressed his lips to Kent once more—gently, this time. Bruce's nails dug into Kent's muscled arms when he felt Kent tense beneath him, and he thrust with his tongue, persistent, until Kent yielded once again and went pliant under him. And Bruce could have stayed in that kiss forever; but at last, reluctantly, he allowed their mouths to separate. He looked down, saw that the young prince was painfully hard, and gave Kent his most rakish smile, putting a finger to his lips.

“Stay here.” Bruce had his water skin with him; he moistened a cloth and gently cleaned the cum off Kent. While he did so, he watched Kent's face—it was easy to see how confused Kent was. After a minute, he moved away from Bruce.

Clark of Kent stood by the bed, free from his bonds. Bruce was still mesmerized by the hard shaft of the prince jutting before him, so much so that he barely had any warning for what happened next. He briefly saw ember-red eyes, and then a flash of red fire came at him. The wall behind him ignited in flames—acting quickly, he smothered it with the heavy drapes before it could spread.

Fuck! Whatever Kent was, he was mad. From the look on his face, he was also surprised that Bruce was unhurt.

The young man then groaned, bent down in pain, covering his eyes tightly with his hands. “The collar! Quick!” he yelled at Bruce.

Bruce bolted towards the bed, grabbed the collar, and replaced it around Kent's neck. Kent staggered, almost falling; Bruce was at his side within a moment, holding him, intending to lead him back to the bed, but Clark pushed him away, head down, hands gripping his thighs. To Bruce, it looked like he was willing himself to calm down. Bruce watched him, fascinated—for even if Bruce hadn't been intrigued, the way Kent's muscles moved under all that bare skin was quite a sight to behold.

Finally, Kent's breaths slowed. He released his hands from his eyes, and when he opened them once again Bruce could see that they had gone back to their cool blue. They reminded Bruce yet again of the eyes of hunted creatures, but they gleamed with a defiance that Bruce found exciting.

“Will you turn into a cold dead thing once again?”

Bruce certainly did not want that; it would be an utter waste of such magnificence. His eyes roved across the wide expanse of gorgeous flesh before him—and that was when he realized the deep bites he had made earlier were gone. He gripped Kent's wrist to examine Kent's arm more closely, and the welts that had formed there, too, were gone.

Belatedly, Bruce let go. But standing this close to Kent, even without touching him, Bruce felt heat gather in the air between them. Perhaps a sign of the powers Kent had? Whatever was causing it, it was becoming unbearable. That cursed collar, Bruce thought, somehow subverted Kent's abilities.

“It is a little bit too much…waking up. To see everything… hear everything. The noise of humanity in this world…much more…” Kent sounded dazed and winded; he had a young, strong voice, though, with a surprising depth in timbre. “All that was needed, my lord, was a kiss,” he added sharply after a moment.

“I apologize on behalf of all humanity; we tend to be a noisy lot. And about the kiss—how was I to know? I have found that it pays to be thorough. But where are my manners?” he said, a trifle too lightly. He gave a slight bow, as excellent in form and grace as if he were attired in his most formal clothes instead of being completely nude. “I am Bruce Anthony Thomas Wayne, lord of Gotham. We are here at the northern borders of my lands. Now, enough of that. I could help you with that—” He tilted his head towards Kent's groin. “—as I am sure it is extremely uncomfortable. Or we could continue to try to kill each other, if you prefer.”

“How dare you! I am prince of this land.”

“True. A prince of a land that doesn’t exist anymore, or perhaps never existed. All this business of magic and time is confusing. But don’t you worry, you are still _ my _ prince.”

“What year is it?”

Bruce told him. Clark had to consider it for a while. “This is a different world at a different time… and you’re not Thomas. You look like him, but you’re not.” Clark seemed disappointed which in turn annoyed Bruce; for whoever this Thomas was, probably an ancestor, it seemed Clark thought well of him—would, perhaps, have preferred him to Bruce.

“I’m _ a _ Thomas, though not _ the _ Thomas you speak of. It all depends, of course. When did you last see him? It's terribly inconvenient, I'm sure, but several of my ancestors share the same name.” It was frustrating to be discussing such a dry subject, for now his cock was softening—and, more importantly, young Kent’s cock was softening, too. Fortunately a part of Bruce's brain still remembered there was a quest to be had, a key to retrieve, and a world to save.

Wait.

“You’re the key.” Bruce was now certain.

Clark regarded him with clear distaste and retrieved his breeches. He looked at the torn tunic and gave Bruce an accusatory glare. The britches, though admirably tight, disappointed Bruce very much, covering all that magnificence. However, Bruce managed to restrain himself; there was always later, he thought.

“What do you know of the key?” Clark asked as they dressed.

“The princess of Themyscira sent me.”

“You are lucky the princess sent you, or else—”

“You would have killed me with those beautiful eyes. It would not have mattered. You’ll leave my stewards heartbroken. My uncle tolerates me because I am blood, but he would not grieve for long. And I am given to understand I am very much needed to save the world.”

Bruce opened the tower windows wider and whistled. He could see Clark standing beside him, looking bewildered by his actions. “Here—I would like you to meet someone.” After a few minutes, a large falcon swooped down and landed by the window. “This is Robin,” Bruce proudly announced.

“Wait, but—isn’t a robin a smaller bird?”

Bruce scribbled on a small paper, then tucked it into the capsule on Robin’s leg. “Yes, but I like the name.” Bruce watched the bird as it flew far away, till it was but a black spot in the sky. “So, my prince," Bruce said, and he could see Clark bristle at the affectation, Bruce could already see he will enjoy provoking his soulmate. Clark decided to ignore his teasing tone. He sat down on the bed, still shirtless. Bruce silently thanked the gods for that, and offered him the waterskin; the young man eyed it dubiously for a minute before he took a long slow sip. While he drank, it gave Bruce another chance to just watch the glorious line of his jaw as his Adam’s apple moved up and down when he swallowed the water... which should have been his cum, he thought, with those perfect lips eagerly sucking his cock—-

“Thank you.”

“I’m at your service.” Bruce winked at him. Kent looked like he was about to say something but decided against it.

“Tell me your story. The princess wasn’t very forthcoming and spoke only in riddles. Who is this dark god that is about to destroy us?” Bruce asked, deciding to not just think about his cock right now.

Clark inhaled, then exhaled before he spoke, gathering strength as he recalled all the events that brought him here .“The one who comes is a being called Darkseid, the Dark God. His world is Apokolips, a place of suffering and enslavement worlds away from here. I fought in the first war against Darkseid in this world. That’s when I met Thomas; we fought against him. I came into your world after that war, after Thomas died. Ages ago, before I fell into that cursed sleep, a powerful mage named Luthor summoned him. Luthor was looking for great power, and Darkseid gave him a taste. He promised Luthor still more in exchange for this world. The princess and her people stopped the summoning. In his anger, the mage conjured an abomination called Doomsday—a monster of fire and stone to lay waste to the world. I defeated the monster, but the battle left me weak. Luthor tried to kill me in my weakened state, but he couldn’t; however, he was able to bind my powers with this collar. I couldn’t free myself, and Luthor placed me in his thrall to become his weapon and ready the world for Darkseid. To protect everyone, the princess found the only magic that worked against Luthor’s—the cursed sleep, to protect me and the world.”

“Then shouldn’t you be still enslaved to this Luthor?”

“No, I’m not. I suppose I have you to thank for that, if I may say so. It was a chance the Amazons took when they bound me in cursed sleep. That curse could only be broken by the one who carries the mark of my soul. In the same way Thomas did, you freed me. It took ages, but you are here now. _ You _ are the key, Bruce. Just as Thomas was, my beloved—without him all would have been lost.”

“What happened to the mage?” Bruce quickly asked.

“He failed Darkseid. Now he is lost in Darkseid’s hellscape as one of Darkseid’s minions.”

Bruce thought about that for a minute. How everything had just become so complicated. “What are you? You are clearly not human.” _ You are beautiful in a way that a human could never be. _ “Why do you have my mark?’

“I come from a world, now gone, destroyed by Darkseid. May I just say without a doubt that you are definitely Thomas’ descendant, with that ego. It is not just your mark; it is ours. I would never have thought such a thing was possible. I am not of your world. But when I saw him… there was no doubt.” There was such longing in his voice, Bruce was now certain he hated Thomas. Bruce was also certain he was thoroughly fucked.

And Clark was _ still _ talking about Thomas.

“—a prince among men. A warrior, a scholar, with both a superior mind and fighting skills. Excellent physique and very handsome. He sacrificed himself to save this world.” Clark was remembering him with such emotion. Bruce was wondering if there was a hell, or hell-scape, or whatever, and hoping this perfect Thomas was in it.

Clark eyed the burnt, mangled scar of flesh on Bruce's chest; and before Bruce could stop him, he placed a hand over it. His fingers felt warm and soothing as he tenderly felt the thick scar. “This was our mark. Our bond. A long time ago while I slept, I felt you; I felt your fear and helplessness, as if it was my own. I wanted so much to rush to your side. I wish I could’ve have protected you.” He said it with such concern that Bruce was stunned, and his mind just went blank for the first time in a long while.

Bruce understood that somehow, he owed his life to the connection they had had even as Clark slept. Clark had been there for him, in a way; but then Bruce remembered how Clark had talked about Thomas—had worshipped him in fact. “Well, Thomas is dead, for more than a millennium now. So you will have to just content yourself with _this_ Thomas, and hopefully _this_ Thomas will be up to the task,” Bruce said very coolly, taking careful measures to avoid sounding like a petty child.

Clark frowned; the warmth in his eyes disappeared. He turned and opened a chest nearby and started pulling clothes from it. A tunic first, and then a jacket, which he quickly buttoned over his tunic, closing it tight around his neck, hiding the collar. He also found a gentleman’s traveling cloak, deep red on one side and black on the other side. All the garments were well made, of excellent material; wherever he had gotten them from, or whoever had left them for him, clearly it had been intended that he would be well attired once he woke up. The material of the jacket was a deep blue that looked good on him. Bruce noted that it was Clark's own sigil, not their combined sigil, thatdecorated the tunic and cloak. Bruce promised himself that when all this was all over, he would dress Clark only in reds and blues and golds, and Clark would forget about Thomas.

“You don’t have to be so jealous,” Clark said softly, at that precise moment.

“There’s no reason to be,” Bruce said with ill grace, and then instantly regretted it. “I am not him, and he is gone, long gone.” Bruce wasn’t sure why he had said that; maybe it had been for Clark, or maybe it had really been for himself.

Clark went abruptly still. Bruce did, too. Clark looked at him with searching, soft blue eyes. “Yes he is, and yes you are not him. You are more broken. I am sorry.” Then he turned and walked away from Bruce.

“Well, I am not a martyr, either,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

He opened and closed his fists before he went after Clark. Thomas was fucking dead. But then memories would never die. Memories lingered; they grew, fed by love or by hate. In this case, it was clearly love. Bruce had already abandoned the idea of a soul mate long ago. It was a hypothetical thing. A fantasy, the stuff of fairytales. He was a lord of Gotham, and he had a mission as the Dark Knight of Gotham. And now, in one day, Clark and the fate of the world itself had been thrust into his life. And yes, Clark was real, so fucking real. Centuries old, yet so young and beautiful; cursed, as Bruce was now cursed.

He could just walk away from all of it. Go back to Waynesmoor, prepare his house for this world-ending cataclysm. Walk away from everything that strange princess expected him to do; walk away from Clark. Clark, who was real—Clark, who was his soul mate. A soul mate originally destined for his ancestor … and the world was about to end… hell, it was all far too complicated.

“So, the Kents—who were they to you?” Bruce asked. He needed to learn as much as he could about this man.

“Their Royal Highnesses found me. After Darkseid, after I released the mother box’s power to push him and his parademons out of this world—I took Darkseid to space, to imprison him on the Wall, the final barrier at the edge of the universe. That is where he was when Luthor summoned him. Luther’s magic was strong, and imbued with Darkseid’s stronger will it became more potent still. I suspect Darkseid has gained more power, and if that is true, it is just a matter of time till he comes again.”

“You speak of things that I could never conceive of, much less imagine to be real.”

“I’m sorry, it may seem overwhelming. Thomas found the idea of a being like me inconceivable, too. But here I am.” Clark smiled, rueful. 

“Then what happened?” Bruce pressed on.

“After I threw Darkseid there, I was flung through several realities. I thought it would never stop. It was painful; imagine your mind—no, your entire being—torn apart, across the space-time continuum, and then put back together once again. Time shifted for me, this way and that, in a merciless storm. I am not sure how long I was trapped in the in-between, but suddenly a force seized me. The next thing I knew, I was awake in a forest; I still had my old armor, but I was younger than I had been before. I stayed in that forest for a while, learning about this world. One day the king and queen were traveling nearby when they were attacked by assassins. I stopped the attack. They were grateful, and they took me into their House. Since they had no heir, they gave me their name as well.”

“And now the world calls upon you once again.”

They were out in the main hall now, in front of the tapestry depicting the king and queen of these lands in times past. Clark looked up at the Kents, and Bruce saw that he was overcome with infinite sadness. He knelt before them with his head bowed, and began to sob quietly.

Bruce gave him a moment. This he could understand: the demons that could haunt one’s very soul; all the guilt, all the memories. Happy memories were the worst of all; they started out as fond things you could hold on to, but as the bad memories multiplied, they ate up the happy ones, like starving ghouls that made you feel dark, or worse, empty. Young Clark’s grief was a burden he had to carry. A part of Bruce wondered if one day he could share his burdens with Clark, too. He laid a hand on Clark's shoulder.

“Come now. We can come back here if you want. I’ve sent word to my stewards to put this land under my protection. It will be all safe.”

Clark looked up at him. His eyes and face were still wet. Before he could stop himself, Bruce bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. Clark did not refuse the kiss; he closed his eyes and kissed him back tenderly with that soft mouth.

After the kiss, he looked up the tapestry again, and then at Bruce. “Thank you, sir.”

They went out into the courtyard. Clark gazed back at the castle, and sighed deeply. The overwhelming sadness was still visible in him, heavy in his being.

“May I tell you something, sir? The cursed sleep was not a curse for me at all. I was at peace. A peace I did not deserve. Do you ever wonder what happened to the entire kingdom that was once here, now that the only thing that stands as evidence of its existence is this castle? It has all been but forgotten, in history and memory; they are all gone, because of me. Doomsday did not just come to destroy me. He destroyed everything. Everyone died because of our wretched battle. An entire kingdom extinct, because I existed in this world. Right before the Amazons bound me in sleep, I asked them for mercy.”

“Mercy?”

Clark looked at him with a steady gaze. “I asked them to end me. I never expected to wake up. I thought one day one of them would just kill me in my sleep. It would be easy enough; the collar subverted my abilities. They are warriors, my lord, with unparalleled skills and knowledge in battle, honed through the centuries. It would have been the best course, tactically, to just end me. But I am still here. Maybe they spared me out of compassion, or maybe because I am still a weapon they could wield to protect this world. Maybe the peace that death would bring would be too kind for someone like me.”

Bruce felt suddenly too aware of his own heartbeat. He understood what Clark was trying to say, and he knew what it was to be helpless. The Dark Knight did not speak; he simply took Clark’s hand, and led him out of the castle grounds.

“Now, we have to see if the Atlanteans can talk to us, my lord. We must hurry before any of Darkseid’s people takes the boxes...” They were outside the castle walls now. Clark saw the blackened wall and gave Bruce a questioning look. Bruce just shrugged.

They walked to where Bruce had Ace tied. “Clark, just call me Bruce. That’s enough.”

“All right, Bruce.”

“Where do we need to go?”

“About half a day’s ride from here by horse is a lake, an inlet to the sea. I remember, long ago, that the Atlanteans had a stronghold under its deep waters. We could get there faster. I could fly us there.”

“Fly,” Bruce said flatly. “Do not bother; I do have a horse.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “I could fly the horse too.”

“You just woke up from centuries of cursed sleep. We are not flying, especially the horse.” Bruce said firmly.

“If you insist on _not_ flying, we might not reach the lake by nightfall. And I don’t have a horse.”

“Then you ride with me.”

Clark gave him a look. “I’d rather walk.”

“After what we did, no need to be so modest.”

“No, after what _ you _ did. It’s not that, in any case—I feel bad for the horse. Neither of us are small men.”

“It matters not.” He grasped Kent by the arm and drew him close and whispered in his ear. “You are my mate. I already miss your body pressed against mine. For now, I will take everything I can get; if I have to mount you on this bloody horse myself, I will do that.”

Kent flushed at his words and chuckled softly. “Take? You are well aware I am stronger than you.”

“Yes. Also, very beautiful and very kind. Such heart is a rarity among powerful men,” Bruce stated wryly.

“You are a strange man. And look, there’s a horse for me after all,” Clark pointed out happily. Bruce remembered the sleeping white horse he had seen when he first came through the courtyard—and, sure enough, it had woken. It seemed like a stout yearling. And as luck would have it, it also had a saddle.

They stayed close to the edge of the forest or kept to the smaller paths to stay away from curious eyes. To Bruce, the sea inlet looked peaceful. A grassy hill on one side sloped down to a rocky shore, where gentle waves lapped at its grey stones. Clark abruptly halted his horse, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“What is it?” Bruce asked, alarmed, and drew out his sword.

“Don’t you hear it? Screaming.”

Bruce could in fact hear screaming. They were at the crest of the hill, and on the side away from the inlet, it overlooked a village. He looked down, and saw a vicious fire engulfing the several farmhouses. A cruel disaster, and yet it was strangely beautiful against the sunset. There was chaos, people trying to douse the flames with water and sand, fleeing and running.

“Bruce, I can help them. You have to take this off.” Clark took off his jacket, and tugged at the collar.

Bruce hesitated, then saw the pleading look in Clark's eyes. He put his hand around the collar, and his skin tingled as his hand brushed Clark’s warm skin. “There, it's done.”

“Thank you.” And with that Clark sped away.

He was quite a sight, not even attempting to disguise his superhuman abilities. First of all, he truly could fly. Then he put out the largest blaze by somehow—inhaling the fire. He disappeared in the blink of an eye, and came back quickly holding aloft— frozen water the size of a small mountain. Clark flew with it higher he went until he was hidden behind the clouds, suddenly _rain_ came down extinguishing the remaining fires. Nothing he did obeyed any natural laws; the man darted in and out of the houses and farms with even more unnatural speed, saving those who were trapped. Most were frightened by him, Bruce could tell. But Clark comforted them with a kind word and a smile. While he watched Clark do what he did, it occurred to Bruce that Clark had asked him to free him from the collar. Had, quite possibly, trusted him. Could he not do it himself?

Bruce decided to make himself useful and organized lodgings and food for those displaced. The people were surprised and very pleased to see the lord of Gotham take care of them.

Later, while the villagers rested for the night, Bruce found them an inn at the edge of the village, owned by a kindly old couple. They had but one room left. It did something to Bruce’s chest, the smile he saw on Clark’s face when he opened the door to their room and there were two steaming baths waiting for them. That smile alone was worth the gold coins Bruce had given the couple.

“We can’t save the world looking like this,” Bruce said, gesturing at the soot that covered their skin and clothes.

“Are you sure—?”

“We won’t stay long, but it’s a few hours till sunrise. And in case you’ve forgotten, I am human.”

“Of course I haven't forgotten.”

“Why don’t you take off the collar? Or I could, if you want me to—?” Bruce ventured. 

Clark had put the collar back on himself earlier. And he said nothing, now, but it was clear he needed Bruce to take it off.

“It’s fine. The world is far noisier now than it was when I first came. And besides, it is dangerous,” he said as both of them started stripping off their dirty clothes.

“Why do you say that?”

“I could hurt people. I could hurt you…” Clark said, his voice tinged with worry.

“You know my parents were soul bonded and they could not keep their hands off each other. But here you are. Just as this collar subverts your powers, maybe it does something to the soul bond... it keeps you from feeling anything for me. Because of Thomas.” Bruce watched him carefully as he sat there in his tub. A ridiculous discussion to have at this time, while they were cleaning themselves. But no time would be better than now.

“Perhaps it’s not that. You see, I loved Thomas with all of my heart and all of my soul. We had a hand-fasting ceremony and said our vows to each other,” Clark said quietly.

“Wait—you married him, even though he was a man? How—?”

“The Amazon culture is far more progressive when it comes to these things. Let me continue: his death still brings me pain. And it is difficult, when I sit here and look at you and have to convince myself you’re not him, because it is so easy to think he is not gone because of you. I tell myself you are two different people! And yet I cannot deny we are a fated match.” He stared sullenly at the water.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Bruce asked quietly.

Clark looked at him with eyes that begged for understanding. “I don’t know.”

Bruce got up from his tub. “The water’s gone cold,” he said as he sat on the bed and dried himself with a bath blanket.

“Well, if you take the collar off, I could warm the water for you,” Clark said.

Bruce stood up from the bed. “Come here.” Clark obeyed and let Bruce wrap him in a blanket. They sat there for a minute, not speaking as they held each other.

“You know what, Clark, enough of this!” Bruce said with intensity.

“Excuse me?”

“Clark, listen to me. I have decided that I cannot lose you; I just found you. Look, you might not feel the same way about me, but I will have to accept that somehow. As I listened to Princess Diana, and as I listened to you, it became clear to me that somewhere along the way, there is a possibility that someone will have to die for us to win. And that someone seems likely to be either me or you.”

Bruce paused before he continued, sighing deeply once again.

“Maybe this time we can save everyone: you, me, the world.”

“It seems you are even more dangerous than Thomas,” Clark said thoughtfully, a small smile on his lips.

Bruce curbed the burn of jealousy that had started in his chest. Thomas was dead, and he, Bruce Wayne, was not.

“It is what I am, Bruce. I have accepted that it will always be about what I could do with these gifts, with what I have. My birth parents made sure I lived. Thomas made sure I lived. He wanted me to be here, to continue on without him. And perhaps...perhaps I don’t want to lose you either,” Clark said shyly.

Bruce felt an unexpected rush of emotions within him. His heart leapt at Clark's words. It was terrifying to have his happiness so hopelessly entwined with this man.

“Look, from everything I have heard, and with everything it took me to get to you, all I have understood is scraps of this and that, and something to do with a mother box. And you are the key. The Amazons and their magic barely protected you. I am not so sure about the Atlanteans. All I know is what you have told me—that they would rather be left alone. So, it is up to us; we cannot wait for Darkseid to figure out a way. We know he is still on the wall at the edge of the universe. And Luthor has not been able to bring him here yet. The Amazons can track Luthor’s magic. We will find him. He is here, and he has found a way to escape that hellscape you spoke of. I suspect he needed me to break the curse, so he could take you.”

“The old man in the village, who told you about me. You think that was him?” Clark asked, a shudder running through him.

“Yes. But you have nothing to fear. No one will take you away from me,” Bruce said.

“Possessive, aren’t we?”

“I just found you." Bruce said simply.

Although they hadn't dried themselves fully, Bruce didn’t feel cold. They both slid inside their bedding naked. Clark traced the burns on Bruce’s chest with his fingers. “How bad does it hurt?”

Bruce grunted in answer.

“I've noticed how it pains you every now and then. You could’ve died.” Slowly, he pressed his lips to it. “Then what would’ve happened to me? Who else could’ve woken me like that?” He slid his mouth down Bruce’s belly, eliciting a quiet gasp from Bruce. Clark chuckled softly down there, and then his tongue began teasing Bruce’s slit. He licked Bruce's balls, and then sucked them slowly. Bruce grunted, impatient, for Clark still hadn’t laid a hand on his cock.

“Clark!"

“I would rather kiss you, Bruce,” and Bruce bit back a groan as Clark moved that teasing mouth away—leaned up again, until his lips brushed Bruce's ear. “Anthony—“ Clark’s hot tongue laved against his neck. “Thomas—” He sucked on Bruce's left nipple.

Bruce grasped Clark’s shoulder. “Kent, I swear to all the gods I will take that collar and tie it around your balls.”

“—Wayne … You talk too much, m’lord,” Clark said roughly, then he kissed Bruce. Slowly, thoroughly, a gentle yet heated exploration. Bruce had never been kissed like that before, an intent discovery with lips and tongue; more like sipping a delicate wine than like taking possession. A kiss that simply said …_ I am here for you _… It was strange for Bruce; he never had been a gentle lover, and his partners were always reduced to quivering wantonly under his brutal possession. He left them spent and wanting more. It was different indeed, this effort to hold himself back and let Clark be.

While they kissed, Clark pressed his body against Bruce's, their cocks sliding roughly, moistened only with precum. Clark spat on his hand, and that additional moisture was enough for them to slide against each other as Clark reached up with the other hand and teased Bruce's other nipple. Shuddering, Bruce pushed Clark harder against him grinding his hips against the warm friction.

Clark held both of their cocks, worked them with long, steady strokes. Bruce sucked at Clark’s neck and twisted into Clark’s grip, arching as his muscles thrummed until the pulse of surging pleasure became unbearable. He could feel Clark tremble and at the climax of the frantic rhythm, tense against him—this enflamed Bruce further pushing him to bite down on Clark’s neck as his cock jerked against Clark’s. They both spilled— hot, thick pulses across their chests, mixing with sweat and spit. It was filthy and heady and Bruce shuddered in Clark’s hand. Clark’s dark head was still pressed against Bruce's chest, his breaths fast and hard against Bruce’s hot skin; his curls sticking to Bruce’s own chest hair, along with cum, spit, and Bruce’s sweat.

“I did not know you liked being dirty.”

Clark raised his head; his eyes were wild, pupils blown and ringed with red, and his lips twitched into a smile. He didn't reply—instead he began to slowly lick the streaks of cum on Bruce's chest, till he reached the mark by Bruce's shoulder. Bruce watched him intently, as his hands ran light touches on Clark’s side before resting around his waist. Clark passed his tongue gently over Bruce’s soul mark, then pressed on it with slow gentle kisses. Bruce felt his muscles were like water as he rested next to Clark.

“I think we need another bath. And then, my young prince, perhaps you can show me that trick of yours.”

Next to him, Clark just laughed.

SBSBSBSBSB

Bruce woke up from his sleep with a start, a sense of unease creeping up his spine; Clark was awake too, listening. The air around them felt strange. It reminded Bruce of the smell just after lightning struck. He remembered that last night after their second bath Clark had not asked him to put back the collar, and no doubt Clark could hear whatever it was Bruce could not.

“Bruce, something is coming. It’s an attack. I must go,” Clark said. 

Bruce sensed how worried he was. “Go. I can take care of myself.”

Without a word, one moment Clark was there next to him, and in a breath he was gone.

Bruce hurriedly dressed. Outside he could already hear howling and shrieking. His Dark Knight armor on him, he ran out. Large bright clouds churned in the sky like a funnel. The sky was bleeding red. The glowing color was almost as bright as a sun in the night sky. There was a great metal craft above them, and it billowed mountainous clouds of dark smoke.

Clark landed next to him; he needed to get used to that. The flying, and how Clark came and went. Clark was wearing a dark armor, made of some unearthly element as far as Bruce could tell, and in his hand he held a battle ax and a sword.

“Bruce. Parademons, a whole ship of them. These weapons came from Diana; they can cut through parademon armor.”

Bruce hefted them in his hand. The weight of them felt right. “Darkseid?”

“No, it’s Luthor, he opened a portal. Diana is with us, and the Amazons are coming. Arthur, the king of Atlantis, and the Atlanteans are holding back any attacks by sea.”

“And the people?”

“They are scared, Bruce. The soldiers you sent to the castle have arrived. Diana and I are putting the people in wagons; we will move them to the castle for shelter.”

It was over after the dawn cast its first light. They all fought hard. Bruce’s battle ax was ink-black with parademon blood. Clark dispatched two other scout ships and they crashed resoundingly into the mountains. The village was one of the battlegrounds, and once again the parademons took those that they did not kill. Clark mentioned absently that he was relieved that there was no undead army yet.

“Undead army." Bruce said, his tone wry. "This will never stop," Bruce conceded. "Luthor or someone else will always try to test how we will defend ourselves. Remember what I said about taking the battle to them?”

“If we go to Apokolips, it will it not just be a battle for our world. It will be for all the worlds that have been enslaved and lost...too many.” Clark lowered his eyes for a long moment.

Bruce wanted to take him, gather him in his arms, but held himself back; his soul mate’s reality had been so different from his, and he had never felt more aware of it. The very idea that Clark came from a different world out there in the stars was difficult enough to fathom—the fact that he had deeply loved somebody else was more difficult by far.

Clark shook himself out of his pensive mood. ”We will hold council with the Amazons and the Atlanteans. And perhaps there will be others out there in the great expanse of the cosmos that can help.”

They stood there quietly for a while. A detachment of warriors from all three races was scouring the village and the surrounding land to search for any more parademons. At last, Clark sighed quietly and took Bruce’s hand. “Someone once told me: what use is power if we can’t protect the ones we love? We can avenge them, he said. But by that time, all will have been lost.”

Bruce clutched Clark’s hand tightly in return. He understood what Clark meant. Both of them had enough demons as it was. “And we can’t lose our way, or we will just be like the monsters we fight. We are each other’s light, Clark.”

Clark turned to him, his gaze sharp and deep, and in that gaze Bruce could see a remembrance of pain...of love. Bruce’s heart clenched he knew Clark will always have those memories, it was painful but he also knew it will always be a part of Clark. Accepting that will not be easy, but again Bruce always loved a good challenge.

”That was part of our vows; to be each other’s light. _You_ and I we could be that,” he said softly. Bruce did not doubt the sincerity of his words and for once there was no spike of jealousy in his chest. 

Bruce wrapped his arm around Clark, and his hand came to rest just over the soul mark on Clark's back. Clark leaned against Bruce, his head against Bruce's shoulder, and for a moment the reality of him soothed all pain away.

FIN


End file.
